What would happen to us if this thing stopped beating,
like the tappered animal skin drums
that black hands use to abuse
to make agonizing rhythm,
that cried beautiful tunes?
I think I would feel it if this thing stopped beating,
like that little thump from a fetus floating aimlessly
causing soft tugs on the cord sporadically
inside an awaiting mother’s womb.
They say I should move on because you left me.
They say I should give up because you’re gone.
Well I say, the world can mind their business,
like a wife to a mistress,
because I know the truth in the beat,
so I know that they’re wrong.
Yes, you left me.
But no, you’re not gone.
-Greta
