The Brooklyn Rail

Thoracic Wall
for Damon Young

I forget about pain
and pandemics, for a
moment, in your
chest, my ear
vibrates to tremors
the closing of your valves,
a lub and a dub,
some people
call it heartbeat
I call it sanctuary,
refuge,
pillow,
drum

In your chest,
the territories at the tips
of my fingers stroke
what feeling safe is like,
not looking for the exits,
                      behind my back,
                 the ally in the room,
           the safest place to hide
I forget about payments
and pythons, who would have thought
a chest could bring both solace and
pleasure, breaking and making silence, I
forget the plagues and pretending,
the distance between your nipples
contains my anger,
the police, I forget,
and protests,
flow down
the stream of your sternum,
entangled in the fibers
of your navel lint
I forget of prostate cancer,
and praying,
again and again
I fall asleep.
Falling is the only way
to find the depths of this cave,
                                               clavicle
                                          mountain,
                                      muscle,
                                stream,
                           sternum,
                       delta,
you cloak your deltoid
surrounding my spine,
bicep wrapping my back
vertebra, scapula, skin
I breath deeply just to feel
you tighter.

In medical school,
I learnt by heart,
the thoracic wall,
  the muscles
    the bones,
      the veins,
        the arteries,
          the nerves.
            the irony,
I spent my life bringing down walls,
who would have thought,
just to lean and listen,
trust not thrust.
my hand over your breast,
fails to remember its birthplace,
disobeys my commands,
it wonders, it wanders,
changes master,
its fully yours now,
slowly, all my limbs and holes will surrender,
maybe this is what Neruda meant when he wrote,
tan cerca que tu mano sobre mi pecho es mía,
tan cerca que se cierran tus ojos con mi sueño.