They call it broken heart syndrome,
spawned by intense trauma or sorrow,
once named, soldier’s heart—
worn out from its fighting, its witnessing.
Today the news said, the earth’s core,
a solid iron heart, is slowing its rotation,
an irregular heartbeat
measured in seismic waves.
I wore a heart monitor the year
heroin entered our home a second time.
Surrendering another child to rehab,
I drove to the crest
of the San Jacinto Mountains, blackened by fire,
where charred saplings made sense.
They say my heart is broken,
pausing among the pines
so I can breathe.
I know how the iron core feels,
trying to reverse time,
to when flowers and children grew cradled,
yet wild, wandering untouched,
sunlight their only intoxication.
