Wednesday, January 29, 2014

Surgery Sings // Taking My Knee

I did not expect
Van Morrison to greet me
in the surgery.

Lying flat on my
back in the haze of incense,
no damn patchouli,

I thought I’d have to
genuflect on marble
in humble homage.

Tupelo Honey
plays among blue-masked surgeons
- they might have been green.

A music countdown
begins to remove me from
the scene, looking at

the dancing doctor
lip syncing in his disguise,
cradling a power saw.

Van sings, I depart
the seven middle oceans
of the deep blue sea.

The room where they cut
you is cold, preserve the flesh
at all decent costs.

Cold and proper, a
cold steel saw cuts bone from bone,
upper and lower

legs, separating
what was joined in the womb,
worn daily in life.

Sensible degrees
are dropped in a swap of
man-made, God-given,

a shotgun marriage,
titanium and plastic
cemented to bone,

polished dead metal
inserted through a zipper
of flesh and staples.

I meant to ask if
they played Van through every
cut, cry of my leg

while I slept under
general anaesthesia,
the dream of nothing.

But pain speaks before
any more songs can be sung from
a mouth in anguish.

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