by Michael Tritto
Shadows sang a nightmare somewhere in the room,
after the angiogram man’s last slam with his fist,
after the “one more test” at the back of my throat,
cameras dropped into the theatre of muscles and valves.
“You don’t have to agree now, but blood will keep
on telling the sad story of “extraordinary flow”.
We will repair the frayed flesh, remove the a-fib
whenever I want to agree, “Let us know.”
Wind is the breath of waiting and spillage its anger
in undercast dark corners where panic smiles
because it doesn’t know what else to do,
and the gurney green faded before the next turn.
The off-tilt room windows had darkened
transparencies of tubes pressing a pillow
I heard the party grow, voices clapping like hands,
interlaced, loosening, making plans, plans.
Now a nurse of savior smile unplunged me,
each move dismantled a captivity harness,
once every half hour squeeze the quieting med
for a flow without leakage straight to child years.
A physician’s assistant appeared from a glance,
told me how sad she was to have this task,
her hands lifted to a collage of tape
grabbed, ripped down, as if pulling my chest apart.
Light sang a dream somewhere in the room,
they took me side to side, a corridor walk.
We stepped slowly by all the cameras cradled above
with the numbers of me, step to step, and back.
All I did was carry the questions within, slowly
on the edge of the raft bed, their hands
landing me with pieces of an altering trip,
feet up, head back, I pushed and pulled a breath.