Ex Organ Donor
I used to check the driver’s license box
So they could use my organs for transplants,
Seeing it as a good deed without cost,
Oblivious to any consequence.
It’s grim to ponder what might have played out.
Would the person who drew my heart also get
Its foolish impulses? Talk about
A bittersweet, Faustian side effect.
But now I’ve overstepped the age limit
So my heart won’t be making any moves.
It’s stuck where I can keep an eye on it,
In my rib cage, chained with veins and nerves,
Scheming as it beats its one-note drum
And matching wits with me for years to come.
by David Stephenson
Editor’s Note: The clever volta of this sonnet raises a question most of us eventually ask—how much longer do I have?