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Glistening topaz globules of adipose
Shimmy like jello
In the surgeons' hands.
As he slices
The silver of the scalpel
Flashes in the O.R. lights.
Now and then,
Bright garnet rivulets
Spring forth and flow
Over the ivory of her skin,
To be quickly dabbed with sponges.
The Surgeon removes
The Cancerous Thing
Entombed within her quaking breast.
Alas, the Beast has claimed this territory
And we now must exorcise It.
How sadly queer her chest appears
Without that appendage.
No longer symmetrical,
Her thorax heaves for oxygen,
Unsure, unbalanced, and embarrassed.
The deed is done.
So neatly, she is Closed.
Precise and pristine,
A railroad of staples
Traverses her chest,
Bringing together skin edges
That were not meant to touch.
The Scrub and Circulator are mute as they work,
Acutely mindful of the Spectre
Recently disconnected
From its' unwitting hostess.
They collect the amputated tissue
And it is solemnly dispatched to The Lab.
There but for the Grace of God…
And You, Dear Sleeping Lady…
You will never know, sadly enough
How we have cared for you
During your repose.
So tenderly, hands turned you;
You were covered, tucked and touched
Countless times in those three and a half hours.
With heavy hearts,
We spoke of you,
Concerned for your prognosis.
Wherever you are,
Please know that we really did
Put ourselves in your place.
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