Anesthesia: A Review
I love—appreciate may be the better word,
as a fine wine—that first jolt, the sharp,
square contraction at the base of the skull
when the morphine kicks in and smothers you
like a stout grandma throwing a blanket
around a shivering dog. Lifting. Warming.
Reassuring. Good boy. All is forgiven.

Propofol is pretty awesome, too.
I look forward to the burning
that the nurse promises won’t last long.
She is reassuring by rote but I allow
myself to think that her latex
hand on my arm is meant just for me.
I watch the thumb slowly push
the plunger and the milky white
snakes into my vein like milkshake up a straw.
I keep my eyes on the blue-scrub curves
and my ears on the steady beeps of inevitability.
I stay as long as possible, even though I know
that everyone else is waiting for the light to go out
because the shift is ending and the scope is primed
and let’s get this party started for God’s sake.

I cannot recommend general anesthesia:
the room cold, the nurses all-business
as they move you to the table on three.
Granted, there is that cozy comforting
assurance as they tug and snug the straps
that immobilize you. But the mask they place
over your nose and mouth offers no sense
of fashion, no sense of style, and you are instructed
—not invited, nor encouraged or gently coaxed—
to take several deep deep breaths.
There is no graceful leaving, no gentle fading,
You are here. Then you are gone.
Then you are here again
and must face the pain
of all that that
entails.

Unmasked
I am no longer the master of disguise.

Zoom has stripped me
of my ability to mask disdain
with sweetened insincerity
or dress up lack of confidence
in an overcoat of navy-blue bluster.

I sit in front of Potemkin shelves

with books whose spines
are stronger than mine
and an expensive looking lamp
that sheds more actual light
than I ever will.

Social distance is a welcome breeze

for me. I cherish the bridges I cross
at a time of my choosing. I resist
Charon’s invitation to ferry me
to the hell of other people
in a boat of velvet-lined

bones.

Sometimes Often
Sometimes often almost always
when I try to sleep
I imagine death
on top of me,
a weighted blanket.
I welcome the sinking
and the soaring
but I sometimes often almost always
hedge my bets
and turn my head
east.

Sometimes often almost always
I Hail Mary
as I feel the sudden
drift and I resign myself
to that cruel good night.
And if it insists,
I will let the heaviness
lighten and the tightness
loosen and the certainties
that are sometimes often almost always
wrong
die,
too.