They wheel me in screaming
draws xs down my chest,
tells me to open, open wide.
crows on my hands, iceblocks
on my shoulders. Someone winds up
its Chopins Nocturnes,
The surgeon probes two fingers beneath
and a fog drops like gauze
to the ground. I hear a horse gallop
whinny, crows frozen and heavy,
drop from treetops. The surgeon says,
are we going? I ask.
She leans in to kiss me, smoke hatching
breath. She smiles like the moon
through the dead of night. I say,
cant feel anything. I cant
feel. . .
A round reflector lamp overhead blinks
a white sheet crosses the ceiling
like a benediction. She says, youre
to your father. She says,
a child is standing at the edge of
away. . . .