The slit's the first disruption. The next, hearing

its utterance: in the mirror, blood. Blood on the mirror-
rift that fails the familiars of my monthly

                                                                                body—the blood-spattered bathtub struck
                                                                                                                                                                me usual.

This recognition—this unsurprise, turning
the tap to greater volume over which I couldn't hear

                                                                                                       the shade of redness—bled me

                                                       till the wrongness o'clocked. 

The surgical site, leaking
fast, bleeding out holes

               between supposed                                                                   tos.

                                                  The patient body loops: speak-over-
                                                  the-other-spiral means warmth means
                                                  blood means involuntary cacophony

                                                                                                                   of possible meanings. The surgeon's voice     

on speakerphone, way dry, echoic
in the ceramic sink: the turning-pink

                                                                           puddle in which his blind eye sits.

He suggests a tissue twisted
into a plug-it-up shape, listener,

                                                                                                                                  he thinks single ply.

There's damage—there it is, immaculately formed,
calcific fossil from soft might've-been

                                                                                              meat. His wrongness, his simulation

bad to the nounth degree, his bird's eye view listing
when he hears bleeding and sees

                                                                      teaspoons where here, uncountable cups, spout

from my only oracular orifice, my mouthful, my mirror

                                                                                               instrument running rapid deluge, crusting
                                                                                                          into red clay my girlfriend starts to scrub

from my thigh, wishing to solve
a different problem than the one I'm trying to speak—

                                                                                                              the blood in my mouth—to explain
the blood of my mouth. 

It's simile
that saves
us: he says
like a faucet? 
like he, too,
would first try
washing away.
Parity gets us
in the car,
with piles
of towels,
cold water bottles
like we're packing
for the beach,
but I don't trust
that he knows it, really,
until he sees
me—secret 
viscera out
loud, when he gets
definitional—this is rare.  

__

July 1 is a bad day to have a medical emergency because it's when all the new medical residents start.