A Surgeon’s Mass (Travis Schroeder)

The Priest scrubs in with Holy Water
And washes me as well.
The sign of the cross marks the site of incision.
Bright lights outline a choir of angels.
Their robes hang loosely,
Hands folded in front,
Careful not to touch.

Everything is covered,
Made holy and unblemished.
The Surgeon speaks and I repeat.
A precious cocktail and now I’m asleep.
I hear a voice and feel a nudge.
I’m alive.

by Travis Schroeder


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