A Sense of Clean

When he told me about the surgery
the air of November sucked at my lungs
and I had a canker sore eating my lip.

He said the doctors had never seen organs
like his: something was devouring them;
chunks of tissue disappearing. After two years,
unconventional methods were tried.

He said no anesthetics were used,
so the doctors tied his hands
down. They gave him a piece of leather
to bite on.

He said when he felt the surgical ice
of the blade separating his skin
he kept blinking
in and out
of consciousness because the pain
was too much.

After they had wiped all the fluids away
and sewn him up tight,
he said his faith had never felt so clean.

In December I tell myself
God gives us canker sores
to remind us of how vulnerable we are.
I tongue the sore over and over,
wanting it to bleed.


The first draft of this poem was written in either 2003 or 2004 and was heavily revised in Adrian Blevins' Poetry II class. It has since gone through minor revisions.