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)

Advertisements

Leave a Reply

Fill in your details below or click an icon to log in:

WordPress.com Logo

You are commenting using your WordPress.com account. Log Out / Change )

Twitter picture

You are commenting using your Twitter account. Log Out / Change )

Facebook photo

You are commenting using your Facebook account. Log Out / Change )

Google+ photo

You are commenting using your Google+ account. Log Out / Change )

Connecting to %s