I knew I had skimmed the brochure
Too quickly
And missed a crucial detail
When the acrid smell of my own burning flesh
Filled the operating room

I don’t know what I expected
Innocent, harmless stitches
Or a clever little sailor’s knot
But instead, a quiet, singeing holocaust
Was occurring in my crotch
Several million fates cauterized
In one sickly gentle touch

Later, in the contrite quiet of my bedroom
I let the Percocet course through me
Diligently searching out the searing pain
I wait with dopey concentration
For a sign
For anything
To detect a sound, a vibration
The useless loopback
Of my own high frequency distress signals

No comments:

Post a Comment