On the Morning of the Port Surgery

Before dawn, I walk outside
the clock. I strip and fold
my clothes into a bag, surrender
my braid, I’m wheeled into
the operating theater
for the opening act of what
will become a defining role
of Cancer Patient, Stage 3.

O feather-headed mongrel
my pickled fleabit heart
thrice-sword-stabbed
please keep beating.

Ungraceful, the heart boinks:
drugged, suspended, spiderwebbed –