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 

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. 


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