Healing the Wound

The Good Doctor Muses,
Will You be bound?

And I Remember,
Surgeons ask and tap
my swollen shin and splinter the skin to leech
out the infection. The leather straps snap
in calloused hands while others reach
into cowhide and pigskin bags. Their fingers
pull out glass whisky jars and worn scalpels.

They place them lovingly on the pine dresser,
line the bright metal tools on the wool
the blanket mother spread to protect the wood.

When the surgeons begin to pour
The whiskey I said,
Not a drop of Satan’s blood,
No whiskey, not one particle. No stupor.
I will feel every second of that blade.
I will know every layer of flesh you raise.