Biopsy
While sedated on gurney
I forget to breathe.
Nurse (tiny woman) shouts
“Breathe, dammit!”
so I do. I pay attention to women.
Another nurse (burly, male)
apologizes for shaving my chest hair.
I understand men.
A voice from somewhere asks me to choose
music for the room—Beethoven or Mozart?
I say “Bluegrass.”
Voice asks “Huh?”
Dosed with fentanyl, mind detached,
I follow my body into an extraction factory—
fingers, scalpels, giant needles,
a sharp and delicate ballet
to bluegrass ballads of betrayal,
knife murder, songs of mortality
making the surgeon wince.
Lab results next week
to learn if I’ll soon be dead.
Woozy in wheelchair to curbside to home
with my love to sleep all afternoon,
then evening watch a rom com because
we prefer happy endings. Don’t you?
…..
First published by Please See Me. Thank you editor Steve Granzyk.
Photo by Sasin Tipjai
Note: a week later the lab results showed no problems. Benign is a lovely word.
Hear me:
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