Right Through Me

Little mortal,

afraid of all the sounds that

see into my body, afraid

of the techo’s patient gaze

at the big screen where

Mr Muerto might be playing.

When they pin me to the plasma

the bony bit of me in tiny

with one perfect stone, is it,

or knot from some ancient accident?

Can you remember any trauma?

they ask, and I want to say

childhood falls from trees,

delirious, just because you could,

and being pulled roughly back

from dreaming on the Capri funicular.

But I just shrug

and feel the rightness

of withholding these lived jolts that

go right through me.

Lucy Dougan