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I talked with my parents this morning (they’re in a time zone that’s 6 hours ahead). I’ll be off, back to school, before they get back. They sound very tired, certainly tireder than they did a month ago.

They’re working with “Doctors Without Borders” somewhere in Poland. We have a fiction between us, that they haven’t been in a war zone for the last couple of months, spending 16 (18?) hours a day, in ineffable, meatball surgery - sewing pieces of people back together.

Although our conversation topics are no more important than soap bubbles, they evoke a kaleidoscope of emotions (in me), our mutual deceptions as fragile as eggshells.
BLT Marriam Webster word of the day challenge: Ineffable: something indescribable or unspeakable.

Meatball surgery = quick, lifesaving, emergency-surgery so patients may initially survive.
Steve Page Apr 12
My life, at this stage,
had worn paper thin
- clipped to a board, hung
at my feet, open to review
with scant reference
to the source material.

My body had been fragmented,
parts selected and cut -
the changes tracked
for future reference.

And there were end notes
(if you were interested).

I was saved for later.
Thanks to poet Tamar Yoseloff who prompted the imagery - see her collection: The Black Place.
Eric Feb 2021
I°°° want°°° my°°° ******°°° to°°° be°°° a°°° mystery°°°
I°°° want°°° a°°° Grove°°° with°°° trees°°°,
Standing°°° tall°°° as°°° can°°° be°°° .
There°°° in°°° the°°° distance°°° in°°° between°°°,
All°°° those°°° trees°°° shadows°°° ,
What°°° lies°°° beneath°°° .
My°°° body°°° layed°°° to°°° rest°°° apon°°° some°°° leaves.°°°
Scene°°° of°°° a°°° suicidal°°° heart°°° surgery°°° .
Knife°°° at°°° hand,°°° looking°°° at°°° the°°° deep°°° cut°°° seems°°°
Pool°°° of°°° blood°°° nobody°°° would°°° want°°° to°°° see °°°.
Stood°°° behind°°° my°°° soulless°°° body°°° .
Lift°°° my°°° own°°° hands ,°°°
Knife°°° cutting°°° softly.°°°
Pulling°°° back°°° the°°° ribs°°° and°°° skin °°°.
Not°°° to°°° find°°° a°°° heart ,°°° just°°° emptiness°°° within°°°.
Looking°°° at°°° the°°° way°°° I°°° laid°°° , how°°° was°°° I°°° to°°° late ?°°°
This°°° took°°° time°°° and°°° pain°°° .
I'm°°° sorry°°° ...
Really°°° no°°° signs°°° of°°° struggle°°° around°°° the°°° scene°°°.
Was°°° it°°° a°°° ******? ,°°° I°°° would°°° say°°° likely°°°.
Why°°° would°°° you°°° say°°° that?,°°° is°°° that°°° what°°° you°°° see°°°.
Yes°°° because°°° it's°°° impossible°°° to°°° do°°° a°°° open°°° heart°°° surgery°°°.
On°°° one's°°° self , °°°°you'd°°° have°°° to°°° be°°° mentally°°° crazy°°° .
I°°° get°°° what°°° your°°° saying,°°° it's°°° just°°° hard°°° to°°° believe°°° .
Walking°°° away°°° from°°° myself ,°°° kinda°°° feeling°°° relieved°°°.
Did°°° I°°° do°°° it ?°°° Did°°° I°°° clean°°° enough°°° of°°° the°°° scene°°°.
And°°° where°°° did°°° I°°° put°°° that°°° heart? ,°°° it°°° must°°° not°°° be°°° seen°°°.
Thoughts°°° dancing°°° in°°° my°°° mind ,°°° creating°°° art ,°°°
Within°°° my°°° soulless°°° body ,°°° this°°° gots°°° to°°° be°°° a°°° dream°°°.
But°°° One°°° thought°°° stuck°°° to°°° me ,°°°
I°°° wanted°°° my°°° ******°°° to°°° be°° a°°° mystery .°°°
I°°° wanted°°° groves ,°°° with°°° lots°°° of°°° trees°°° .
Just°°° standing°°° tall°°° and°°° alone°°° like°°° me°°°.
And°°° there°°° in°°° the°°° distance°°°  an°°° in°°° between°°°.
Now°°° forever°°° my°°° shadow°°° lies°°° beneath°°° me°°°.
My°°° body°°° laid°°° to°°° rest°°° apon°°° soft°°° leaves°°° .
A°°° scene°°° of°°° a°°° suicidal°°° heart°°° surgery°°°.
Don't judge over thoughts and dreams
Corbyn Nov 2020
205 days until I’m free
the biggest weight lifted off my chest

where’s my reflection?
the mirror doesn’t show it

is the sight of my naked flesh

exhaustion has become too familiar
each day feels like eternity

burying my body in clothes way too big
it brings some comfort

Aphasia Nov 2020
How real are they? These faded dreams
The line between
Anxiety and reality
Like the knife I know
Was entered into me
Found in emails to doctors
I've forgotten I'd written.
Sometimes awe and trauma battle for the same headspace.
Joseph Koch Jul 2020
Am I awake?
This simulation feels so real
My every waking moment
Masks and hazmat suits fuel my fear
This ******* nightmare
Somebody get me out of here

I don't know what I'm saying
I just don't ******* sleep
They wait for me inside my dreams
Another **** stain
On some brand new sheets

Now In a few days
I'll be back on the street
Old holes holes in my socks
The same dirt on my jeans
In the back of my head
I know I'll never really leave

Wake me up again
Slice my skin
Take my blood
Push my medicine
Experience in hospital during Covid-19.
A few weeks and 2 major surgeries. I wrote this when I hadn't slept in over 5 full days.

The poem is about my state if mind during this particular hospital stay.
Chloe Apr 2020
Blood is red
Bruises are blue
My wisdom teeth just got pulled
But only two
Well I got my wisdom teeth pulled today and ouch, it hurts
Michael R Burch Mar 2020
Just Smile
by Michael R. Burch

We’d like to think some angel smiling down
will watch him as his arm bleeds in the yard,
ripped off by dogs, will guide his tipsy steps,
his doddering progress through the scarlet house
to tell his mommy “boo-boo!,” only two.

We’d like to think his reconstructed face
will be as good as new, will often smile,
that baseball’s just as fun with just one arm,
that God is always Just, that girls will smile,
not frown down at his thousand livid scars,
that Life is always Just, that Love is Just.

We just don’t want to hear that he will shave
at six, to raze the leg hairs from his cheeks,
that lips aren’t easily fashioned, that his smile’s
lopsided, oafish, snaggle-toothed, that each
new operation costs a billion tears,
when tears are out of fashion.
                                                O, beseech
some poet with more skill with words than tears
to find some happy ending, to believe
that God is Just, that Love is Just, that these
are Parables we live, Life’s Mysteries . . .

Or look inside his courage, as he ties
his shoelaces one-handed, as he throws
no-hitters on the first-place team, and goes
on dates, looks in the mirror undeceived
and smiling says, “It’s me I see. Just me.”

He smiles, if life is Just, or lacking cures,
Your pity is the worst cut he endures.
But hack him down and still he’ll always rise,
lifting his smile to the sun or the star-filled skies.

Published by Lucid Rhythms, The Eclectic Muse and Victorian Violet Press, then nominated by the latter for the Pushcart Prize

Keywords/Tags: Angels, baseball, ****** reconstruction, surgery, operation, God, scars, tears, courage, mirror, smile, date, dating, dog, attack, dogs, happy ending
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