Surgery: At Sea

Circled by lights which pin him to the stage,

His torso, swathed in white, becomes our life.

And the throbbings fuse. The seas', the ship's, our hearts;

Nor do they matter now. What was our pain

Is ultravioleted, drenched in white.

And these hands only, sheathed and shiny live;

Hung listless yesterday, they poise with joy

Above their deed. As if forewarned he moans,

His eyelids beat against blue, moistened fields

And time is spittle moving over lips.

None breathes, the air is drained, we drown until

The scalpel leaps obscenely into flesh.

It spurts in crimson waves a rose of blood.

When time resumes, a scarlet gauze falls down

And sprawls along the tile. Now you may leave.

The jealous night sea is your foe again;

Here will remain some sterile images:

The tired mouth ajar, a lysoled air,

And clustered at his side, in disarray,

A tray, with any kind of blood-slaked blades.