ok,

so lately all i can think about is boobs...and i know i am a little pathetic. *shrug* ...but i thought that i would copy/paste a poem i wrote about the last surgery into here (i have been thinking about this poem a lot, and hope that i do not have to write a pt.2 and such. *sigh*) might as well do something with my poetry while i wait for the MFA. *yawn*

yours to devour:

PLASTIC ASSEMBLY

I count and connect the holes
in the dropped tile ceiling
as they lean and press my thighs --
over my hips, joke
about the cancelled tummy tuck
who conceived the day before.

My body is a centerpiece
for dinner conversation;
They set out carving knives and spoons.
I am a head
dismissed behind the sheet.

Relax, this is a slight pinch,
a bee sting--

and to the first surgery I am thrown back
to his flat, cold
relax relax,
and the sharp, spiced smell of his breath,
oily and coated with mint.

I hear the snap of his gum and gloves
as he flicks the blue sharpie over my skin,
jagged, and scribbled weaving,
a child�s picture of a cat,
cut on the dotted line.

This time, obscured, I can not watch
him knead, stretch, stencil new scar lines,
this doctor�s rueful apology.
I want to stretch my neck up to his cheek
and inhale,
but straps and nurses hold me
down, back, away.
As they baste with iodine I bite
my cheeks, lips, scrape
nails against my palms
against my numbness.

Local and awake,
I am amazed how his cuts
are the timid tracings of fingernails,
how my chest opens, splits
when I breathe.
Caught in the projection light�s flicker,
I stare at the false ceiling and create galaxies,
plot constellations �
The Syringe, The Two Clamps �
unable to close my eyes
until they cauterize and stitch,
thick drips puddling at my back,
down my thighs
as I am ushered out, past the line.