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.
by Travis Schroeder