I fell asleep in a field of hands.
The name of the jacket was Jim
but I called it Nurse. I had
come here of my own volition
and demanded I be mandated
the clear liquid diet. I coughed
at the mask of the anesthesiologist.
I called the sky above the hands
Hospital. The smell was medicinal
and identical with the memory
of remembering the smell.
The cough was a calculated
move on my part but I mistook
the anesthesiologist for the doctor.
The doctor asked me if I wanted
surgery and I said Yes, if that’s
what it’s called. I called the doctor
Yes. The anesthesiologist had a special
name for his analgesic cocktail
to which I was not privy. The name,
not the field of hands. The doctor
called me No. The doctor said
No, but that’s what you’re getting.
He pronounced order ‘ordure’
and ushered in a bevy of kids
in white smocks. They held their
clipboards close and asked
if they could look down on me
unconscious and naked. I looked
to the jacket named Jim
for guidance. They smelled like
absolutely nothing. They were kids.