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Two men take handfuls of me,
wrestling me out of my clothes;
into a prone position.
As one holds different body parts;
the other cinches them down.
With a wink, and onion-drenched breath,
the binder exhales a reverent whisper.
You should just hold still
so nothing bad’ll happen.
I shiver from the cold,
yet they have beads of sweat
forming on upper lips, brows.
I don’t want their hands on me.
The pain squeezes out tears,
turning the lights and faces
prismatic: doubling, tripling,
finally a kaleidoscope.
The one who tied me down
holds something sharp to my throat,
commanding: Lie still,
or it’s going to get bloody.
The other guy,
hand pressing my head,
mutters behind a barely concealed smirk,
Relax and it will all be over in a minute.
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After the needle is in my neck
and taped firmly into place,
dye is injected.
Fluid, hot and thick,
races through my body
while a machine etches
inner secrets onto film.
The intern accidentally trips
on a fallen thin blanket,
tangling the IV line,
almost pulling it out
an already abused, discolored arm.
Seeing the extra suffering he has caused,
he apologizes and withdraws.
The doctor, hearing this,
pulls him aside and whispers
just loudly enough for everyone to hear,
Never say you’re sorry to a patient.
Understood?
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