Emergency Room

I’ve always played the patient, never the surgeon. This operating table, shining
squeaky clean, has held down thousands of bodies like mine for the same purpose:
dissection.
(I know, too. I know, too)
Sedated, cut, torn, pulled, rolled, flipped, excavated, measured, colored, weighed, scanned, rejected, approved, stamped, flagged.
I exist as a gift to superior humanity- banality- a sub caption in social sciences.
(I know, too. I know, too)
A living sample of racism, classism, colonialism, sexism—
Prometheus’s –isms, eternally carried up the capitalist hill,
falling off glass cliffs, feeding social reproduction
with my gut and womb.
This waiting room is packed with whispers of change,
at the blink and beep of my number—never my name—
let me call upon the supernovas of knowledge birthing in my travelled feet to say:
I am not ill, cancel my appointment.
(I know, too. I know, too)