Hymn Thirteen (Unsung)

“A Land of No Arrest”
for D. W.

We too often confuse the meaty, muscle heart for
who we really are—as if that pulsing pusher holds
all intellect and emotion.
Hearts break. Hearts burn. Hearts arrest and grow ever poor
in pumping. Hearts attack the arteries and veins, rolled
up in our cycling blood ocean

bodies, cresting year after year on waves of thump-thump.
The heart is our core of flesh, a simple center
set to beat in our natal hour.
It is not our infinite soul set to jump
this trifling world we love too much. We’ll enter
forever with a new power,

greater than any red twitching mass can churn.
The celestial shore and proverbial gates and streets
will welcome us, friend.
I think we’ll chuckle, knowing it is our turn
to leave back old hearts no longer keeping a beat,blood-washed, done with sin.

Michael P. Carriger