Monday, October 26, 2015


“Do you know who I am?”
How can I tell? A white mask covers his face
as he leans over me.

I clutch my teddy close, blink my eyes rapidly
and shake my head. He pulls
the mask down and I know him. “Dr Jeffrey!”

“Soon we’ll put you to sleep.
We’ll put teddy to sleep too.” He puts a mask
on teddy’s face, then mine.

Blackness. The surgeon’s friend, the liminal field
we lie in and they cross
with scalpel, forceps, dissector and snare. Blood.

Teddy doesn’t die. I wake
in a bed in a room with four beds, a man
beside me and a throat

that feels like a rasp has scratched it’s whole long length.
I start to cry and the man
says: “You’re mum will be here soon.” It doesn’t help.

I’m as small as teddy.

26 October 2015

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