Chimera

My ribs creak open like doors

that have been long closed.

Like rivers, the blood in my veins has been diverted.

Wetlands have died that way, you know.

Surgeons say I have a fifty percent chance at living.

The membrane around my heart is cut. 

My heart comes out with a small splash,

like a baby breaking free of the cowl. 

The new heart is the color of a plum.

It is firm and it is juicy.

The surgeon cradles it in the palm of his gloved hand.

The heart fits neatly into the hollow space inside me.

The surgeon stitches it into place

with tiny, precise knots like embroidery.

The rivers flow through my veins.

Some people think the wetlands

can still be saved, you know.

The surgeon closes the door of my ribs,

fits my skin over my chest like a delicate robe.

Of course, I don’t remember any of this.

My mind is blank from the anesthesia. 

I wanted to float up to the ceiling,

to supervise it all from above.

I wanted to see the bright light,

to see Elvis, to see my long-dead father.

Trust me, dying isn’t all it’s cracked up to be.

My mother visits me later, in recovery.

She takes one look at me dressed in a white hospital gown

and white hospital sheets, declares I look just like an angel,

and pulls out her rosary.

Two days later, a nurse helps me into the bathroom. 

She argues, but I insist that I want to see myself,

to see how my topography has changed.

My bloated face floats in the mirror

as I carefully remove the dressing

like unwrapping a newborn’s swaddling clothes.

The scar slides over my chest.

Caged behind my ribs is the heart.

The prednisone and Zovirax catch in my throat as I swallow.