"Everyone Is Bones" - David Noah
The panic bird is stuck in his
chest!
Crack the ribs, yells the surgeon
over the ping ping
of the pressure machine.
Crack the ribs stat stat stat.
Here it comes, wings unfolding
like demonic origami, beak wailing,
and the creature clambers from its
cage,
spattering blood on the linoleum
floor,
while sweat beads on the nurses
foreheads.
Get back, screams the surgeon.
Get back, screams the bird.
I’m contagious, they shriek.
Ping ping ping.
Hemostat, bandages, blood
pressure, bone splint,
abductors, forceps, I need
suction, he cried.
And the shrieking mad bird
slams against the green walls
while the pressure machine, driven
insane, crashes to the floor.
Stat, yells the surgeon.
Stat, yells the bird.
A nurse says ‘scalpel?’ in a quiet
voice lost in the busy air
but the bird grows bigger,
wingspan big as your head, big as a bed.
An intercom blares static static
meaning: love is incomprehensible.
The surgeon flips the x-ray switch
so everyone is bones,
and the skeleton bird howls
as it smacks into the stuttering
fluorescent lights.
Bang goes the great nervous body
against the door
The surgeon faints and the nurse
staggers,
but the patient twitches a finger,
and feebly rising from the table,
calls bird bird.
He drags himself across the room
trailing tubes like guts
until the bird finds his chest and
dives back in,
tunneling into his heart,
folding his wings like a leather
skin.
The ribs click into place like
teeth.
The patient opens his beak to say,
really quite calmly, it’s ok, I’m
ok now,
as he steps on the surgeon
and with a familiar, satisfied caw
leaves the room to wing his deep
way home.
Home, says the man.
Home, says the bird.
9-2–14
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