Transplant

By

Alexander Willing

(Love is the blood of life)—

Beating, beating, beating, beating;

She had to be put way under;

The work had to be swiftly done,

Before the setting of the sun.

Beating, beating, beating;

Cold sweat spilled down the surgeon's face;

But his hands stayed ever steady,

Getting the instruments ready.

Beating, beating;

The precise incisions went well;

Sinking deep into the thick chest,

Just to uplift the topmost flesh.

Beating;

The target was fully exposed;

And the love of her everywhere,

As the diseased heart reclined there.

Beat—

The surgeon winced at each snip made;

And out came the beaten being,

With some of the distress fleeing.

Flatline—

Scanned that technological green;

A strange sensation surged the room,

Programmed the surgeon's nerves with doom.

Breaths got stuck in the midst of throats—

Perspiration got the clothes soaked—

Voices fell to mute as they spoke—

Momentary departure, then—

Beat—

Beating;

Beating, beating;

Beating, beating, beating;

Beating, beating, beating, beating;

The brand new heart was inserted;

And the blood flowed like a waterway,

Washing aside her pain today.