Subcutaneous
by Joel Vega

 
                       1

It is strange how light
quickly fills up your body

like a clear glass filled to the brim,
close to the point of breaking.

Here, you said is a corner of pain,
less of a feeling

more like an aching thought
that rubs the seamless side of the brain.
 
 
                        2

When your old, wrinkled hand
clutches the knife, cuts open

the brown heart of ripe nectarines,
I, too, expect the morning to burst

and flood into this room that bears
the stubborn scent of formaldehyde. 
 

                       3

We simply repeat the motions.
One hand holding the door

one hand seeking the knob
of fear, plunging, subcutaneous.

The nurse taps the syringe, feels the pulse,
unlocks the sharpness of needles.

First published in Runes (Memory) An Annual  Anthology of Poetry Published by Arctos Press, California, 2003.

© Joel Vega

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