Put Me Under

The nurse reminds me to say goodbye
to the boyfriend,
splitting a thread on his shirtsleeve
and holding my underwear
in a plastic bag,
all nervous hands and dry lips.

The IV sings in my veins, a lilting siren sound
of cold and sleep, as I roll down halls my senses
cannot track.

The operating room is bigger
emptier
than I thought it would be
as if I first needed to feel small
to be made small.

The siren dulls to a whisper, and the angry white
of it all fragments

beneath my eye’s touch.
The nurse straps down my arms, and I forget

I have arms at all or bones or flesh, I even forget
my breasts marked with black Sharpie, angry lines

anticipating scalpel cuts. I forget it all. Restraints
mean nothing; I float free.

The swirl is interrupted by black,
my lashes dipping in pools of rest,

dancing the siren’s ballet.