The Surgeon

How I feel about most of what I write

The Surgeon

Each time I slide my pen across the page
I thoughtlessly operate
On white space

Other people have already claimed all the lovely phrases
There is nothing left
Silence is the only new thing
No one has said that yet

The ink gets thicker
As the words thin out
The metaphor drops
And lies still beating on the tile

I get caught up allusions and guts
The meaning is never really touched
But somewhere in the exchange it pumps
Pulsating independently of my entanglement with entrails

The idea of slashing an artery
Keeps my young brain fearful
My young hands are too careful
To make something beautiful

Soaking hospital sheets
Trying to be free
Of the stains of remains
Of the poetry could have been
Had the surgeon known more
She could have made something
Saved something
But this young girl isn’t brave enough to slice the paper with her pen
Look at how her hands shake