Atop a little hill, an old dilapidated structure
Bore itself out in view
Against the blue backdrop of the summer sky
The climb was steep but brief
I paused at the entrance of the shrine
And reflected upon the craft and purses of men
Men who thought it needful
To build abodes for deities
Who had the heavens and beyond for themselves
While their sisters with their husbands and children perished all around them
The thought did not bring anger to my veins
As it had so often done before
But it did bring a recollection of the previous instance
When rage had seized me and held me captive
For a moment that seemed to last a lifetime
Nevertheless, this was not the time to reflect
Upon anything but my aggravating pain
Which hammered at my chest
And tore at my spirit
I slipped the shoes off my feet
And stepped inside the sanctum

“Hello, I’m Joe,” he said. “Welcome, welcome
Whatever is it that you’re looking for
You’re bound to find it here
I’ve got all types of screws in this world
All sizes and all colours
I’ve got nails of varying heights
And hammers that go with them
I’ve even got me a drill machine
That can penetrate through walls
Like a knife slashing butter
Or like a sword slashing veins
What is it you’re seeking? Oh, a heart, I hear?
A heart that cries very little?
And certainly feels no pain?
Oh my, oh my, I’ve got pins and bolts to fix everything
But don’t believe I have enough to fix your troubles
You’ve certainly put a bummer on me
I’m no longer the almighty Joe
Take, take my sincere apologies
And hurry, hurry towards the shrine
Where you’ll find a wise, old man
Who has plenty of time to ponder
On all that is and is not
But has very little time to shave or bath
Hasten, hasten, my friend, do not be idle
A woe like yours needs urgent attention
You better not lose a moment
Tell him all your troubles
He’s bound to give a solution
If he fails, I’m afraid
There’ll be nobody left to help you at all.”

I bowed my head and thanked him
He curved his lips in response
I failed to recognise that expression

I went to a nearby shop and asked,
“Have you a replacement for a heart?
Something that doesn’t break as often
Something that doesn’t hurt as much.”

“Nope,” she said. “I haven’t the thing I think you’re looking for
I have fine red apples here with me
Possibly the right size for your chest
But they’re no immune from disaster
All the finest care in the world will
Not stop this fruit from withering
Emitting a pungent smell
Leaving a bad taste in your mouth
Now unless you plan to greet me every week
And buy a bunch of these fine red apples from me
I believe I have not the thing you’re looking for
But I do know Joe, the handyman
And he, indeed, is a handy man
He’s got all the tools that any man has ever known
And some really useful implements
Be sure to darken his doorstep
If you wish to find a cure
For whatever disease it is that is plaguing you.”

I bowed my head and thanked her
She smiled and winked at me
I failed to understand her

It took some years before I realised
The root cause of all my pains —
Inside my ribcage
Sitting slightly behind and to the left of the sternum
From the deep crevices of an organ
The size of my fist
Wrapped in layers and layers of tissue
All the pains emerged
Like soldiers marching into a battle
With sharp swords and spears
Flinging them at my chest
Till I break