The cardiac sonographer
measured the luminal diameters
of my mother’s heart,
the Doppler ultrasound
transmitting the storm
as it gathered violently there,
like a battered weather balloon
tied up in the branches of her lungs.
“That looks like the hell inside of hell,”
I joked. No laughs.
The technician moved the wand
for a better view of the heart’s chambers.
I kept it up, “Look, a tiny white weatherman
opening and shutting an umbrella. Isn’t that bad luck?”
I gave in and observed
in the impossible quiet,
the silent forecast of the heart,
missing the sounds of wind, thunder and rain.