They said I cried before
the doctor had a chance to slap me.
Hanging by my heels, my lungs latched on
to that sudden earsplitting air. Topless.
This time, I knew time
had passed. I looked down at the classic
shot: a circle of pale green surgeons
stabbing knives and forks
into a hole of red meat gaping
below my ribs, above my pubic hair.
My legs, ridiculously splayed. My face,
a numb mask without me.
And yes, the famous tunnel blinked open,
its luminous black iris and tiny glowing pupil
pulling me. To go or to resist
was an unimportant choice
on par with vanilla or strawberry,
but before I could decide, my ghost
wheeled around and dove
head first into my fresh wound.
Ah, brutal light! Forty years
hadn't changed the hospital smell
or screech of metal curtain rings.
Morphine sealed my eyes,
but surely you could tell
my hand knew your hand.
Published in Lullwater Review