It comes like a slip in the day~
a blue stillness,
a pause I didn’t ask for
but must walk through.
The operating room is bright,
too bright,
as if the world has been pared
to its cleanest edge.
A feather rests on the tray~
not real, but the thought of one:
light,
soft,
bound to air
the way I am bound
to this hour.
Memory stirs~
the half-dream drift
of all I’ve lived through,
all I’ve held,
all I’ve let fall.
Peace is not loud here.
It is a small pulse
in my wrist,
a breath that says
I am still
in the world,
even now,
even in this
unexpected place.
And when I wake,
the light has changed.
The day has moved on.
But something in me
has learned
the quiet art
of returning.
the operating room waits in a pale hush
metal holding its shimmer like a vow
shadows gathering themselves into still corners
the air hums with low mechanical dreaming
soft pulses threading through the silence
as if the room keeps time for the living
gloved hands move with practiced, quiet grace
shaping unseen pathways in the air
preparing the body’s hidden journey
the lights rise into a slow white blossoming
illuminating the table like a threshold
where flesh and hope lean toward each other
anesthesia drifts like a pale unfolding tide
smoothing the edges of awareness
carrying the patient into gentle depth
monitors whisper the first faint awakenings
life stirring back through muted circuits
as the room releases its long-held breath
you are not the body.
he is the operative of the subjective you.
you are the subjective of this body you.
see the way this internal monologue works.
flow of thought.
inner voice.
the cerebral narrator.
interaction with the human organism.
interprets the world using the senses.
commands its organic mechanism.
sadness, apathy or joy is your choice.
prove, approve, disapprove.
you are what you think of the body.
(tomorrow in that operating room, in 2104,
the transplanted brain will explain more.)
In the middle of the new surgeon's lunch
OR experienced a patient crunch --
Doc set aside his meal
Growled, What a lousy deal --
Removed a liver from which he could munch
I'm a doctor who murdered a man in the OR.
I lost my medical license and I'm behind bars.
The bastard took a life with his gun.
The person who he killed was my son.
He fooled the jury into believing that he was innocent.
I was so angry and I made sure that Hell was where he was sent.
When he killed my son, I was blinded by rage and devastation.
When I had that animal in the OR, I botched the operation.
I ask myself if others would do what I did and I believe they would.
When I saw that heartless monster flatline, it felt so damn good!
I was convicted of first degree murder and now I'm on death row.
If you're wondering if I'm sorry for what I did, the answer is no.
(This is a fictional poem.)
Looking for the formal definition, structure, and history of this poetry form? Visit the Poetry Dictionary entry below. Then return to explore how PoetrySoup members bring the form to life through their own poems.