An EKG machine is something the doctors put on my chest in the hospital. The EKG has wire hands that record the energy in my heart with swooping and jumping lines on paper.
The doctor told me my heart is like an engine, but sometimes even the best engines have problems. In my brain, I see my heart. This time I decorate it with feathers, hanging shells and flowers that grow out of its top. Tubes bigger than the ones connected to my IV drip move blood in and out of its pumping system. Its skin is made of red velvet and in its belly are beating drums: da dum da dum da dum da.
Plum-red blood rushes into my engine like the waves of the ocean – swish swoosh, swish swoosh – and out again – swoosh swish, swoosh swish.
I put my hand on my chest. I think that the doctor does not know everything about my heart.
I am going to be married soon and an EKG machine cannot hear and feel what I can. My hum is like the low moon at night, when it kisses the ocean. This is when my sound turns into a song.