The pulse is how we know we are here,
The place where our hearts belong
And blood flows
And beats skip and pound.
It’s where we no longer have to hide,
Racing toward the exit
Flushed with relief or red with demand
That what is real is finally being seen.
It’s where we go to find out,
That no matter who you are
Inside, when your wrist is held,
You’ll be known by the strength of your heart.
And when the pulse is taken
We may feel the shattering;
The thready truth of us,
The fragile, narrow, way we carry life —
One beat to the next to the next to the next
All connected at the pulse
And carried back to the heart
Of the broken world.
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