Colon: Not a City in Panama by Wayne F. Burke

I feel the thing going into and up
my arse
and it feels strange,
plus
I feel as if I am about to blow
a big BM
all over the doc
behind me,
but
it does not happen
because
they are suctioning me
as they run the tube up
and I am watching the
whole thing
on a screen:
a movie of my colon
pink, wet, red-veined
riveted like a vacuum cleaner hose;
cramps start each time the tube
rounds a corner;
the nurse presses down on my abdomen
and after the initial panic
over the pain
I relax
because
the cramps do not last long,
and I continue to watch the movie,
like a National Geographic special,
until a polyp appears,
a fat villainous jelly drop
the doc cuts off
with a pair of silver shears
that cause blood to gush,
like in a Slasher-film,
though I feel nothing
except some unease
that the camera will show
another polyp
(and another, another, another)
but it does not,
and the doc says “that’s it,”
and later
in the recovery room
the nurse says “you did really good,”
which
I take as a compliment, thank you.

wayne-f-burke
Wayne F. Burke’s poetry has appeared in a variety of publications (including “In Between Hangovers”). His three published poetry collections, all from Bareback Press, are WORDS THAT BURN, DICKHEAD, and KNUCKLE SANDWICHES. His chapbook PADDY WAGON is published by Epic Rites Press. He lives in Vermont.

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