Paul Hostovsky
Window
The doctor said what I have is called
pericarditis—inflammation of the pericardium,
which is the lining of your heart.
“We can cut a small hole—it’s called
a pericardial window—to drain the fluid
around your heart and lungs. It’s heart surgery
​
but in the world of heart surgeries
it’s only a minor operation.” It didn’t
feel minor. The drainage tube hurt
​
like a motherfucker. I was in the hospital
for ten days and during that time I had plenty of time
to think about what it means to have
​
a window in your heart. The doc was less interested
in the figurative than the literal. He gave me
an incentive spirometer to take home.
​
An incentive spirometer is a device for improving
lung function. You’re supposed to breathe into it
slowly and deeply. It looks like a cross between a bong
​
and a musical instrument. I already wore
my heart on my sleeve and now I was walking
through the world with a window in my heart.
​
I had a glass bong when I was a teenager,
back when I was in love with Faith Roffman,
the first one to whom I gave my heart.
​
She broke up with me for Mark Winkles
who could play lots of musical instruments
including the saxophone. That hurt like
​
a motherfucker and it felt like I couldn’t breathe
as I walked around with a hole in my heart
for weeks, months. I got high all the time after that
​
and turned into a real pothead. I tried quitting—
swore it off by throwing the glass bong on the ground
which broke into a million pieces—but the next day
​
I bought another bag of weed. All these years later
in my convalescence, sucking on my incentive spirometer,
I’m thinking about Faith. I want to tell her
about the window, how it’s possible to look
back and have these fond memories of the pain,
to smile warmly at the suffering. I want to tell her
​
about the strange alchemy
that turned my first broken heart at sixteen
into this cherished thing I caress like a polished stone
​
in a pocket, taking it out often, looking it over
fondly, turning and turning it
in the light of today.
Door
“Interesting,” says my wife’s ex-husband
to himself (“He can fix anything,”
she likes to say. “Except for his broken
marriage,” I like to say.) as he considers
the door jamb, the strike plate, the lock bolt
on the door he’s installing in our kitchen
because, interestingly, we all get along now
and I actually like the guy, so I hired him
to do some carpentry. Because I can barely
open a door, much less install one.
“Interesting,” he says again and I know
it means he’s encountered a problem–something
isn’t fitting, isn't level, isn’t plumb. I’m sitting
in the room across the hall with the door open, writing,
wondering about the difference between
level and plumb. And also, come to think of it,
between him and me. I want to say “interesting”
the way he does. But what I usually end up saying
is “shit,” or “fuck,” or “I give up.” I’m always
closing doors, it seems, either because I’m unable
or unwilling, or, worst of all, uninterested.
But he says “interesting” to himself, and that’s
interesting to me. It means he’s open
to what’s in front of him. Like opening a door
and walking right on through while looking
up and down and all around with interest,
willingness, maybe even amazement, something
I would like to do but never seem to do
in life–I only do it in my writing. And the fact
that my wife left a man who can fix anything,
a man who stands at the threshold saying “interesting,”
for a man who prefers to sit and write about life
than live it–-that never ceases to amaze me.
​​​​​​BIO
​
Paul Hostovsky's latest book of poems is Pitching for the Apostates (2023, Kelsay). His poems have won a Pushchart Prize, two Best of the Net Awards, the FutureCycle Poetry Book Prize, and have been featured on Poetry Daily, Verse Daily, The Writer's Almanac, and The Best American Poetry blog.
Website: paulhostovsky.com