Sunday, August 28, 2011

It's Weird to Think About


Deep peach-pink and purple-blue,
Thick, like a vein raised to the surface of my skin--
The skin is taut, pulling into tiny wrinkles, pushed
By the gradually expanding roll of abdomen,
Finally remembering where it was before
This all started.
It widens and meanders, like a dried creek
Bed, the muddied path still traceable
Where it washed the banks, spilling
Over into my navel. Irregular, fading dots
Line the shore, remnants of the metal
That clutched sheets and clothing, a memento
Of the truth:
A man's hands held my insides ,
Feeling, inch by inch, the warmth.
Precision tools glinting ready
On sterile trays, the thin paper gown
Ripped and absorbent, the sound
And sensation familiar and routine,
Viscera and all open, exposed,
At mercy.
With eyes closed I see the room,
The gloves, the wound. A draught
Tickles the wall of my flesh, wet
And silent. Mask and skullcap
Bow, reveal the glowing, tri-part
Glare. From the wrist and up he is
There, framed by the crowded windows
Of the observation room full of eyes
And fingertips.
Like a hooded sweatshirt unzipped,
my stomach yawns wide. A team
Of white-scrubbed faces surrounds,
Watching, handling gently the blood-
Spotted scalpels, tight gloves matching
The gown seeping red. The intestine
Is longer than could ever tuck correctly
Back from where it came, coiled,
Covered and stapled.
The scar bulges and curves, smooth,
Like rubber. My fingers know it is
Now my skin. Hair returns, covering
The small patch of stomach that lost all
Feeling, forever changed and never
Leaving, never not a part
Of me now.

1 comment:

  1. I keep coming back to read this one. Over and over and over. I want to share it on Facebook or my blog, except that doesn't seem right... If it were not the true story of my brother...

    I wonder how one finds a publisher. I think that you could compose a book from these poems.