by Tabor Flickenger That’s me burning, that smell A touch of cautery here and here to halt the blood I have wielded the needle and knife Now it’s my turn to receive I wash my hair kneeling In mute supplication Remove the dressing later, as instructed. A little dried blood. Three neat blue sutures. Not so bad. Not so bad. I almost forget with my eyes closed Till my fingers brush the prickly alien patch Worry repressed is not banished But descended, pushed down into the bowels Frayed nerve ending pulse, twist, shudder I work like all is normal. I tell no one. I care for others’ pain and push … Continue reading
