Waking from Anaesthesia |
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Waking from Anaesthesia
The kind of hand that shakes / the body awake with a cymbal / crash
Time burns in me like a fever. There are no voices, then the voices I hear are thunder, the music of the lifeline disappearing up my left arm
reappearing now as a kind hand, the kind of hand that shakes the body awake with a cymbal crash. I take in the world again: pastel flowers, the lake
of fluids flushing the pain from my head, the wrap and stain of bloody scrubs used to compress the surgeon’s cut. Foolproof, or at least proof
of injury: dressing bunched into a universe of gauze. I can feel the salinated bulge of the IV; the distorted edge of the sun’s call and........