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