This submission won second place in the Synapse Storytelling Contest creative writing category.
lay him supine upon the funereal table
with the humorless chalcedony cloth and
dehumanized latex hands.
Beyond displaced sternum and steel jaws
pumps the inarticulate crimson mass —
scalpel-kissed sweatiness singing
the drums of a dirge to a halt, deposed by
an apt apparatus of spinning wheels and licorice ribbons twitching.
Stooped over, surgeon’s eye in mind, I
anastomose analytics, and incise
precisely, perfectly upon the flesh, the flesh.
The chest of Pandora I open, finding all plagues and little
A head of geraniums, a fruit of Eden.
Sinew and blood, heavy as anvils,
the lead laden child, a child,
but a child.
Stitch him up I do,
bit by bit, suture the linen skin,
seal the cavity, the tomb, the tomb,
encasing a dead heart risen.
Now he lies, tubes and pale skin.
Tape and crinkly blankets.
An ostensibly fissured thorax.
A posy of sanguine roses and white chrysanthemum.
Lest I turn into wires or stone,
scavenge my sorrow and my woe from
the vivisection of a beleaguered heart
youth chasmed from hope
far far far.