756 Readings


Face covered by the long
sterile drape, I could be anyone.
This will make it easier,
he thinks. He drills, stippling

a semi-circle across my shorn
scalp & peels the dura free
in flaps. How can I survive?
The doctors say things like

plasticity. Then each one
shrugs, admits: We don’t really
. But my body has already
held a vacancy as deep as this

entire hemisphere, revealed.
If the mind is the soul’s seat,
then the brain must be
its dwelling: my doctor lifts

it tenderly, lobe by lobe
from my opened skull’s wide
uneven bowl, an infant
who is bound to disappoint.
Posted 05/12/12
Originally published in Barrow Street
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