On the fifth day of pills, the limestone
stole my eyes. Beneath its scraggle and rasp
my sight burned senseless. No surprise–
they must want to cure my beast with more beast.
What could see me like this but the monster of me? By morning
rock threatened my nostril’s edge. They had to break me open
to let me live. I had no
mouth to tell them to give back my mouth.
The surgeon, wearing a mask,
took a hammer to my mask. My blood babbled forth.
Even a throng of doctors could not solve
my unsyllabling. Their white coats blurred
bright with the logicless sprint of its spill. Nothing of me would submit
to the coax or command of scab and suture. And yet
the rest of me kept together–
my stomach’s split too feeble to refuse my limbs
the cradle of a paper gown. My neck resigned itself
to the tantrum of my remaking. Nothing of me
could rebel the room. It became clear that I was no god. Thank
God. Thank god.