Glue, gurneys, the orchestra
by London Chastain
There was no red carpet, but gurneys
in a line and doctors, like motors,
and yelling --
a schizophrenic man, whose villain was everyone, improvising
a melody of slurs
over the beeping of machines:
his most fortissimo note, Tranny,
but still insipid, like a dull timpani,
like a muted trombone. I practiced
my poetry in the emergency room, writing
of cutting
right
beside the vein, eyeing
the red run of blood; it felt like ecstasy, it felt like sex. Lie still,
and let me glue your wound,
said the physician over the hospital’s sweet instrumental.