Surgery (Revised)

I am resting on the operating table,

the fluorescent light code-morsing

that I’ve been here before.

My hands shake with the weight of scalps,

of barely visible thread,

my gaping stomach oozing–

too much intestine and half a liver.

There’s a group of cloaked crows

standing in judgmental regard,

humming their approval, tsking at my rookie mistakes.

“Aren’t you better qualified to do this?” I gasp as

I accidentally rupture my pancreas.

“But it’s your body,” they chant,

“you know best.”


We gather under new born suns,

the homes you built as gifts missing rooftops

to protect us from the elements you seem to crave.

and so We shift, shaking on skinny ankles,

to the predator, jaw opened wide–

warmth in this deadly cave, food, a reverberating

echo of welcomes.

you gave us an incomplete home,

deeming us incomplete.

We migrate now, to the beyond

you claim no longer exists for people

like us.

now that We’ve learned you’re lying

you’ve lost our meek hands:

keep your suns and broken homes.


there are mountains on my wrists

for every corrosive spillage of greed.

there are mountains on my thighs

for every bad angled reflective surface.

there are mountains on my stomach

for every unreturned meal.

there are mountains on my scalp

for every entity reaffirming worthlessness.

It takes earthquakes to bring mountains down—   (my chest wheezes in tectonic plates)

Egotistical Egoist

I wake to lingering warnings:

egotistical egoist.

Suffocated between insomnia and sleeping pills

I must be dreaming about you.

It pisses me off,

your lyrical subconscious presence far too elevated for your pathetic reality.

It pours, flooding words escaping my cracked hands

and I wonder if I can recreate you long enough to edit you into


In nightmares, too, you tease:

waking in cold sweat and

embarrassed regret: egotistical


too good to waste.

I can’t pretend

to masquerade roles

I have no script for.

Standing in the ballroom: centered and focused

will not get me to light the chandelier.

A soft spoken promise lies dormant in my right hand

so tightly clutched

I wonder if it lives still.

I’ll flex open these muscles on the day of


when stars detach from their strings–

stage collapses.

I’ll take on paper wings,

sprouting from its cave, this promise

producing a gust so fearful

tables turn upside down.

Then: centered and focused

I’ll gaze upward.

Stage direction:

The chandelier drops elegantly.

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:
(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)