Dick Cheney does have a heart. Doctors have seen it. But the odd thing is, it isn't his.
Albuquerque poet Margaret Randall has published more than 80 books. Her reputation and influence extend worldwide. And she contributes in many, many ways to the local poetry scene (including a faithful commenting presence here on the DCF).
Meditation on ex vice president
Dick Cheney’s heart transplant.
He wakes with the new master muscle in place
but something is wrong.
Years of synchronizing heart and head,
the lust for power coursing through both
in syncopated symphony,
greed on the battlefield keeping perfect time
with corporate greed and even the baton
he wields within his family
or on a friendly hunt.
He wakes and doesn’t doubt
the transplant has been successful.
In every way but one.
No organ rejection or danger of infection,
no fever above his usual two degrees
below what other mortals know as normal.
This is a problem to baffle the specialists.
all of modern medicine.
Wife and daughters’ smiles appear
through anesthetic haze:
they wouldn’t understand
what he fears so he doesn’t try.
Vietnam. Halliburton. Iraq. Afghanistan.
Unwavering surveillance at home and abroad
drone into a disappearing distance.
None of five prior attacks
hinted at such dilemma.
The all-powerful man rests on white sheets,
state of the art equipment
hums and beeps about his bed.
Outside his hospital room
Secret Service best post serious guard
against the ever-lurking threat.
And the man who’s always had an answer,
forever kept his razor-sharp cool,
wonders about the man
or was it a woman whose body
only hours before housed this heart
now beating in him.
Could she have been a Democrat?
Could he have lost his job or home?
Or, god forbid, detested war?
Woman? Black? Lesbian? Transgender?
The anguished questions
course his veins:
ominous tide producing little stab wounds,
unfamiliar emotions he can’t remember
this strange irregular beat
rendering him physically sound at last
and intimately defeated.
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