Moose Heart

An Alaskan nurse I knew searched a dead moose
for its heart, showing her boyfriend its veins,
describing how the inner workings pumped
before it fell to their hunting rifle.

He did not listen; instead, he pulled
a ring from his pocket, slipped it onto
her finger, blood caking the diamonds,
the band slippery from bodily fluids.

I imagine when my surgeon broke
breastbone, splayed ribs, found the clot,
he pointed out my veins to the nurses,
body broken for this teaching moment:

Pull out the heart, notice the thrombus,
see how maliciously the blood clotted,
like a demon choking her lungs.
We’re saving her life—it’s a miracle.

And did you hold my diamond ring
in your pocket, sleeping on vinyl chairs,
waiting for my eyes to flutter, chapped
lips to move, drugged mind to recall you?

I awoke. I recovered. We married.
You suffered my lingering grief,
like a perfume I could not wash off,
a musky scent tinged with metal.

Forgive me. These days I still feel
lifeless as a fallen moose,
broken for others. These days
I don’t feel much like a miracle.

Hannah Comerford is a writer and editor whose work has appeared in publications such as The Pomegranate, The Indianapolis Review, The Unmooring, Ekstasis, Fathom, and Please See Me, among others. She holds a Master of Fine Arts in Creative Writing from the Rainier Writing Workshop, where she is now Program Assistant. Hannah lives with her husband, son, and dog in Tacoma, WA.