It was a miracle, the first time
I saw a beating heart:
a gray and white, fuzzy-grained rhythmic
splotch of light in the core of the silhouette
of my perfectly formed 20-week fetus.
My own heart flopped in my chest
as the evidence of life traveled
to my view through sound, gel,
and the skill of a chatty technician.
I had never seen something so
beautiful as the living, beating organ
of life I held inside me.
The dim room, the hospital gown,
even the cool gel on the ultrasound
wand became symbols of the living
love inside my womb. And that heart,
oldest of all symbols, held a life-
time of its own love to give and receive.
Today I enter a dim room
and lie down on my side, hospital
gown open in front. The gel
seems colder, the technician more subdued,
the wand without the magic it held years ago.
Through it, an image travels,
but this time, my body holds
only one heart. The arrhythmic splotch
of gray and white light on the screen
holds my emotions hostage.