Lavonne J Adams
Echocardiogram
On the screen—my heart.
Watching it beat, I feel something
akin to horror, quickly followed
by a flood of tenderness,
as if viewing an infant unborn. The room is dim,
the music classical; my heart thrums along
in antiquated shades of black and gray.
The technician moves a transducer
like a divining rod across my chest and
around to the left of my breast,
mapping out my interior. I watch
my mitral valve open and close
like a jellyfish propelling itself through water.
One click and the screen lights up in skirls of color--
blue and red sparking like solar flares--highlighting
the movement of my blood: a way to trace
backwash from faulty valves, or the hourglass of
an artery clogging. The walls of your heart are
thick. While unpleasant as a metaphor,
I hear these words as a smudge of guarantee
against a heart like my grandmother’s
that paused at fifty; she walked for weeks
as if treading spun glass. At the end
of the session, my heart reminds me
of a beehive that opens and closes
in a silent scream…or maybe just
mouths my name, declaring
itself faithful the only way it can.
