Syn-anaesthesia

This morning I put a navy blue dress on.
It is long and loose and the blue cotton
suits my pale chin,
appalled skin,
my peculiar summer bloom
in the emergency room.

At two p.m. I jumped out of my disposable garment,
pinky-fleshy worm rolling, adamant
from the backstage stretcher
to the operating theater,
preventing the Chief Syn-Anesthesist
from doing his work properly.
I had so many pointless things to say that
they gave me an hypnotic.

‘I am going to give you something to make you calm’
He said, smoothly. 
I said ‘Don’t drug me.
You know, I AM ALLERGIC TO PENICILLIN 
PENICILLIN 
PENICILLIN!’
I howled and he said
‘Listen — ’
But I could not hear anything but the deadly silence’s reign
And the murmur of a sedative rolling down my vein

Synaesthesia
You have heard of it in high school poetry classes
and pompous Michelin-starred dinner menus.
But here the lack of stimulus in one sensory modality
involuntarily elicits another type of sensation,
blending The Five Senses.
I could not feel my legs
but a sickening feeling of insistent
un-empowerement
overwhelmed me right here.
I could not taste, smell, see, or hear
anything but apathy
A shudder ran through me

I woke up later, frozen and detached from my legs
At five p.m. they brought me back in my hospital box
Comatose and alabaster white

In search of lost time
They poured bad black coffee
and gave me a madeleine,
To remember.

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