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I sit in class aloof, in back, and draw
those funny little doodles in my notes
and laugh at something dumb and immature
that greatly hinders me from paying mind
to writing down the lengthy notes about
that bloody organ called the human heart.

Because today we will dissect the heart
of seven fetal pigs and try to draw
in detail all the parts then write about
a page describing things we saw of note.
I hope, but doubt, the teacher will not mind
My bold cartoons, drawn so cutely immature.

The task at hand confirms I’m not mature.
I don’t want to dissect an actual heart.
It puts a damper on my state of mind,
these little baby pigs’ unlucky draw.
I can’t believe no one around me notes
that stink, formaldehyde that wafts about.

And now I cannot stop my thoughts about
these harmless pigs who died, so premature
and merely for a seventh grader’s notes.
I’m a kid who knows that deep within her heart
she only wants to innocently draw
imaginary creatures from her mind.

But no, it’s not the heart that tells the mind
important things it ought to think about;
this stark conclusion I have come to draw,
a one so grim it has to be mature.
With that I take the scalpel to the heart
and write about the mess inside my notes.

Across the room I think my teacher notes
unruly students too uncouth to mind
their neighbors since they’re stabbing at their hearts
whose spurting blood prompts me into a bout
of tears, although I want to be mature.
I hide behind my desk and soon withdraw

to happy things I draw inside my notes
I know I’m not mature but I don’t mind
today I’ve learned enough about the heart.