Poetry by Miriam Kramer

Andrea Merletti CC


Unstruck
 
The cardiac plexus is a network of nerves that electrifies the heart.
A direct blow knocks the wind out so fast,
trying to replace the air is like inhaling smoke.
Each gasp tastes like hot coal. Attempting to laugh
is a poor choice, even for a masochist.
I choked at the sight of you,
heart racked with laughter, lungs on fire.
 
While a drilling a hole in my jaw, a dentist told me,
“be grateful for your strong bones.” I have not broken one to this day,
though I have tumbled down hills learning to rollerblade,
been kicked by strong thighed cyclists,
played fight club with walls – leaving knuckle holes
in every place that never felt like home.
And I have been hit pretty damn hard in the chest.
 
If I am not good at signing up for pain, I am not good at anything at all.
I have never tried to hide this, I displayed it on my body with pride,
displaced reflection masking the broken at my core.
I wore the neon band aids. The ones that scream
“I dare you to ask me what stupid shit I did this time.”
insides held together, lit up brightly like it was 1993.
My outsides ached to glow, to show what I could not articulate.
 
The English translation for the heart chakra means unstruck.
The sound of no objects hitting one another.
The Zen conundrum of one hand clapping.
Sitting on a bench in the cold was when
I noticed your green eyes. You broke the stare,
curious of my hand clasped in yours,
pulled my clenched fist to your mouth.
 
That kiss spilled questions on my flesh.
You turned your melting ice eyes back to mine,
I was reborn in that glance. I told you then, it was ok to ask.
My backbone grew tall with confidence.
In Buddhism, the heart chakra is called Dharma.
This phenomenon of essential energy resides
behind the spine, protected by the breast plate.
 
You place your hand on my chest, tell me I am not broken, you see light
emanating from my cracks. Kintsugi means to join with gold,
a concept born in 15th century Japan,
when a tea bowl was repaired with no attempt to disguise the damage.
The first time I noticed gold in your eyes, you kissed the scars
on my shoulder, learning my history with your mouth.
There was electricity in your trembling jaw.

 


​
Five Seconds and Counting
 
I have started closing my eyes
while driving at night.
I have gotten up to five seconds.
 
I tell myself the roads are familiar.
I tell myself my other senses will take over.
I tell myself maybe I will crash.
 
Maybe I will crash, and because
I did not see it coming, no one will blame me.
No one will blame me for my mangled remains,
 
for the hard, clockwise jerk of the steering wheel
on the overpass on Union Avenue,
for the bouquet of fake flowers at exit 13 on highway 287.
 
I close my eyes.
I hold my breath.
I count to five.
 
When I open my eyes, the night sky is blinding.
When I open my eyes, I am still driving.
When I open my eyes, I am alive.
 
I try not to ask why.
I just close my eyes and count to five.
I hold my breath.
 
I open my eyes and count forty more seconds.
I can hold my breath for 45 seconds
before instinct kicks in.
 
I trust the burning in my lungs more than the fear
living in my stomach. I trust the total darkness
behind my eyelids more than the noise inside my mind.
 
With my hands gripped on the steering wheel,
my white knuckles shine
under passing street lights.
 
I tell myself my bones are strong.
I tell myself I am weak.
I tell myself maybe I will survive.
 
Maybe I will survive, and because
I did not see it coming, I will stop blaming myself.
I will stop blaming myself for my mangled remains,
 
for my cringes at careful hands
and familiar touch,
for the tears after sex with the man I love.
 
I close my eyes.
I hold my breath.
I count to five.

​

Bio: Miriam Kramer studied Creative Writing at Pacific University, and works at a local bookstore. Her work has been published in The Rising Phoenix Review, and Indigent Press. She lives in Bound Brook, NJ, with her faucet obsessed cat, Ernie. Miriam is overly sentimental, often rescuing items from other peoples’ garbage.

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