August 16, 2015

Communion

Spine curved around precious cargo
Hold still, they ask, staining
your back brown with betadine.
Shoulders slouch obediently,
your forehead pressed against mine.
Fingers grip me tightly as I stand
before you, murmuring small words
or remaining silent, syncing breaths.
This last calm moment –
before anesthesia finishes,
before we swing into action,
positioning legs and painting orange
the moon of your belly.
A cascade of azure paper
sequesters you from view.
I step to your side and rest
one hand upon the prize.
I call for a knife and cut.