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what's left is still made of gold
the men who have held my heart
often forgot to wash their hands
letting specks of dirt and dust
stick to the outer side of my ventricles
oxidized blood loses its shine
when it carries too many foreign particles
he puts on gloves and a surgical mask
then pokes and prods with expert care
asking, "what does this part do?"
and listening when I answer
his thumb traces my aorta and taps
the syncopation of his own heartbeat
in time with mine
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