Landscape, Saturn
	 “Once, the snow was so deep you almost couldn’t hear Margaret Atwood.” --David McGimpsey

White, blinding sun. Even with movie star shades set firmly on my nose, 
feet and hands disappear in a mirage of patio umbrellas. 
	Heat is more aggressive than snow, cannibalistic. 
I could eat a pound of snow, never quote an Atwood line, 
still certain to hear her in summer over the raucous back-hoes.

Three days ago, my cardiologist told me I had 
Broken Heart Syndrome, or more accurately, takotsubo, 
the Japanese name for octopus traps. Like Jan Arden.
The left side of my heart had ballooned, 
leaving the base intact but gasping beneath the fluid-filled
weight of a newly-sprung headfoot. 

I say, unbreak me, while my heart crackles like lightning 
across the snow-capped screen. The doctor says, don’t move,
and I am back on that scorched patio, sunglasses intact.

Slippery as ice, today’s special, calamari steaks, 
swings by. Edible woman, my ticker is a tantric bomb 
on that plate, arteries sparkling clear, not rainbowed 
like Saturn’s rings. I always knew 
	something terrible would jangle loose 
if I let my heart gallop out of sight, plain wild.

© Carla Hartsfield