In between the silences,
she spoke of the surgeon's
physical strength, comparing
my girth to his as if my limp

body would need to be
bench pressed by him
after i was opened up.

Never does pain feel more
worthless than at the point
of physical surrender, when
the darkness of my

insides are opened up to light,
the whirring mechanism of
a spine spoken of with
foreign words: bone grafting,
stainless steel pins, fusion.

These things that will hold
me together like a bridge
over the causeway of
my vessels. her eyes weigh me
out, accessing my drive:

do i see a conspiracy in
the surgeon's task? am
i secretly weary of the
medical system? who isn't!

But i am worn out, wrung out
like a dish rag drained of its worth.
whatever needs saying, whatever
needs winking at, insinuated,

to reach this resolution: I am
a beaten man, placing my handful
of bones in another man's hands like
a witchdoctor's divination.

I am smiling through the grimace,
while praying through the "thank you"

i like the way you sum it up mister, say this is just a poem, or what? i hope and wish you are doing fine


the vulnerable always feel the world is accomodative with a snigger, so my Uncle said, you have captured it in your poem!

Well said but it twists at my heart. I know it's necessary and I'm glad you got these feelings out into the light, but the thought of you as a broken man...