I have nervously awaited the POP
and sharp pain— ice pick
through my temple?— the shrieking,
shrieking, shrieking of a something
that cannot be said, the dizziness,
the euphoria of weightlessness,
the wild and the wild and the wild
of my curls grasping at latex
gloved fingers and claiming,
the squeaky wheels (less squeaky now),
the no-time-for-anesthesia, the ethereal
confusion and cloudy, the shine
of fluorescents and glint off the tray
of surgical tools, the surgical knife
and first incision— but wait!—
the shaving of my scalp, the vulnerability
of psoriasis barking back and biting
the razor, the— okay, now— the first incision
along my hairline vacated, the screams (mine?)
and the screams (someone else,
maybe through glass)
and the screams (mine again), the knife
opening as my forehead blooms, the blooms,
the incision precise as India ink swung
on a twig, the sweat collecting on
a hovering brow, the sweat dabbed away,
the sweat absent from my face, the life
absent from my face, the CRACK and saw
and another bloom, the smell of disinfectant,
the smell of another woman scrubbing in,
the smell of toffee, the lights (oh! the lights!)
in my unblinking eyes, the blood suctioned
off my brain, the grey matter that isn’t grey,
the pinch and the screams, the screams again!
the clamp carefully placed,
the anesthesiologist’s apology, the drip
of the IV (finally!) blessed IV,
the warmth in my groin, the morphine,
the stainless needle stitching in an arc,
the morphine, the vomit, the morphine,
the morphine, the morphine, and
the sleep.