Elisabeth Wentworth: The Metaphor

The Metaphor

Anatomists insist that the heart is an organ;

Four hollow chambers and fibrous walls,

The outline of a plucked goose, neck drooping

From the arch, in size no bigger than a closed fist.

We mistake its function and its form, they say—

And misdirect the young—

When we make it love’s seat

And give it upright symmetry.

Two equal halves floating in cartoon skies.

A lesson years in the unlearning, they have found.

It is true that the heart is an engine room, not a bower

And leans to the left where the hard work is done.

Its lower chambers have thicker walls:

It requires more strength to give than to receive.

Although it has ears, it cannot hear,

Although it has strings, it makes no music

Save a percussive beat, an endless loop,

Expanding, contracting, keeping the pace.

And yet there is a grace in the work of the heart, I say,

That mimics a love that stays the distance.

A beat, a rhythm, a shared momentum,

Rich strands of fibre, formed into muscle—

Contracted, stretched, by loss and gain,

Leaning to left or right in turn

As the strength of the other is required.

Two angled halves, resting in the pulse.

My blood, your blood,

Receiving, giving, until the end.

Elisabeth Wentworth