Forethought and Afterbirth

Go again, the overhead light

Covers the table; the sheets

Have all been sterilized,

The surgeon runs the blade

Across his finger smiling.

 

Once more bend back the wrinkles,

Fold open mental skin.

Blood let through the frontal lobe,

Spilling to announce

Without sparing detail.

 

Again, this too familiar fever;

The poetry scalpel slow,

Dangling before the eyes,

A muse-carrot tied to emotional string.

 

The cutting must go on,

Without time for scars,

Yielding only rare resurrections

From a life-long transfusion.