I recently got an email from Hannah Stephenson letting me know about a poem she wrote in response to one of my paintings.  Love that.  Love how ideas can morph and change and grow from one thing to the next.  A photo that inspires and idea, the inspires a photo, that inspires a painting, that inspires a poem and on and on.  Hannah has a blog, The Storialist, go check it out!



There, there, the stethoscope says
to the one being scoped, measured.

The breath-warmed diaphragm rests
near your shoulder blade like a palm

or pushes into the skin over your heart,
pledging loyalty, longing. I solemnly

vow that this is my body, these sounds.
Struck piano wire and typewriter key,

spinning dial to a combination lock
and roulette wheel. Clicking turn signal.

Deep breath, the doctor instructs us.
Then, breathe normally, as you would

usually. To see inside the sarcophagus
of the body, we observe survival: oxygen,

heartbeat. We can take turns examining,
listening. Climb up on the table next to me.

Trust me, I’m a professional. Let me plug
my ears with the clamor inside of you

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