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.