The Procedure

Off-white floor spans polished under fluorescent bulbs.
Surgical table is tilted, patient on board.
Her limbs stretched outward, a mantis pinned on display.
Left arm drinks IV fluid, ankles nestle in stirrups.
Shades of blue to match the sky, fitted drapes

Balloon up and over, covering toes limp from spinal sleep.
Only one patch of skin stands revealed,
All but swallowed up the surrounding blue.
Other times covered by the skimpiest bikini,

Now lies exposed, shunning any prior modesty.
Gowned in aqua, a figure lingers
Not four feet away from those suspended feet.
He’s counting, recounting a splay of silver.
Four of each instrument has he laid out.
Each with its own purpose.
"Ready to do counts, Mark?"
The figure nods, countenance voided by bonnet and mask.
"Go ahead, Jane." He fogs his eye shield.
Edging toward the table of blue, scrub nurse Jane

Peers at the sponges piled on a row of Kellys.
One by one they count again.
Fifteen minutes gone by, all is ready.
"Okay, Jane. Page the doctor. We’re go."
Page goes through. "He's on the way."
From behind the drapes, the anesthetists peeps.
He snatches a glimpse at the clock.
Quarter hour more has elapsed.
A clutter and the sliding doors part.
Enters a man grandioso, masqueraded head to foot.
Holds his hands up, scrubbed and dripping.
Mopping his digits, scrub nurses gown and glove him.
Attention to the square of bare skin amidst the blue,

He takes his throne, flags his left palm up.
"Scalpel."
How hushed is the room in its sterility.
Snip.
The adhesion is relieved from the vaginal vault.
His head held erect, the surgeon rises.
"That’s a wrap, folks. Prepare for recovery."
Degowning, he snaps off his soiled gloves.
From the room he struts, looking forward

To the next challenge presented by the day.

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