Organ Poetry: Kidney Whisper

Waves of auditory foam rock my eardrum ships, pushing sterns to deep sea. A harpoon of noise shock, and every sound a note off, playing low into my high, except one. One flat note turning to sharp whisper’s urgency.

– I’m not dead. I’m not yet spent. Water me. Grow me. Be brave.

A kidney doesn’t know English speech, doesn’t form our syllables, can’t be talking to my ears, but it vibrates my keys correctly all the same.

– I’m not dead. Not failed. Don’t let this national resource falter and die in your guts. Fight!

My nostrils hold a metallic scent nobody else can smell. Blood! in its veins. It’s the saltless whiff of land inhaled from the crow’s-nest. The glad news, unknowable to the deckhands below.

A better land to come, is waiting on our horizon. Its topography encoded in the genetic flaws of those who live with the fog of illness. That’s what the blood smell shows me. And my kidney whispers its refrain.

– Be brave. I’m not dead. Break the clouds. Seed the land. Dispel the fog. Water me. Grow me.

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3 thoughts on “Organ Poetry: Kidney Whisper

    • Thank you, Paulo. Glad you liked it. Only, it was the absence of salt in the high wind (from land) that he smelled. It was a “saltless whiff”. In contrast to the saltiness of the sea around them. Comparable to him having a metallic blood smell in his nostrils that nobody else could smell. The scenario of the crow’s-nest and the distant, unseen land was a metaphor for him sensing something important that others could not.

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