The Maynard
Spring 2018

Imperfection

A while ago, a doctor
measured my heartbeat
and declared it failed
to operate as most
other men and women,
its peaks and depressions
too high, too deep,
unusual in its thumping.
“That sounds about right,”
I said, conceding my flaw
and proceeded to think
nothing of the verdict.
Just recently, Lisa, the nurse,
a nice young woman
whom I made laugh
a little, took a scan,
a picture of my belly
and caught another fault
at the very hub of me,
my thrombosis, my obstacle.
It might have been more
telling if she simply poked
at my middle with her finger
and said, “There, right
there, is your imperfection,
the source of your suffering.”