At the base of the heart

the second sound

is louder than the first

and the third sound hardly comes at all,

In the pit of his stomach an unpitted olive

pitted itself in the lining

and grew itself up,

its stems connected

like the parts of his lungs

breathing, breathing, breathing, like he was instructed to do,

“breathe, son, breathe”

“okay, doc”

oil like sweat formed on his brow,

“say, doc, what are my chances?”

“hush, son, is that the base of your heart”

“yeah, doc, there’s your hand

I’m wounded, doc, I’m a goner”

the second sound was the shrapnel splitting his intestines

the first sound was the explosion that knocked him over

the third sound was the medic’s pressure,

makes olives into oil

grapes into wine, and

with elevation, blood into scabs,

In the pit of his stomach, the oily organs

a sheen made unpure by sticks, by the earth,

the third sound came and came,

the stems invaded each other,

“hey, don’t look down, concentrate on your breath”

“sure thing, doc”

“son, put your arm here, around my shoulder”

The sheen of the olive, marred by spice

the sheen of the gut, marred by twigs,

“say, doc, what was that sound?”