I.

At blank daybreak,

the surgeon guts

me, the smallest fish.

My chest torn

open, a vast cavity

in a tiny body, he plunges

his hand in, caresses

where the hole is, where

the ventricles sputter

and gasp, pump

erratically, a dull wind

pouring through my veins.



II.

If I was ever more alive

than that moment, I don’t

remember it. But of course

the surgery is forgotten,

a wash of red and sterile

instruments. So what?

My parents say

this was my first trauma.

But I can’t recall the surge

of supposed fear turned rage

turned helplessness.

You need to remember a fact

in order for it to be true

for you. If this Teflon patch

turned muscle made me who

I am, then I am still abstract,

still wrestling with my own

body in every dream I have.



III.

I know what the problem

of the body is now:

You can't get out.

You will never escape

your own damn limbs,

the wretched brain.

Help me, the body says.

I am your life.