by C. E. Laine
Sunday, October 20, 2002
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a swollen eggplant (bruised
and sweetly rotting) replaced
my arm in my sleep. a doctor
wearing a goatee and a crisp
white gown produced a swiss
army knife, serrated blade exposed.
sawing raggedly as I watched,
he explained to me the fundamentals
of doughnuts. I didn't know
the holes had such significance.
my limb fell to the floor with a wet
thwack and lay still. my new stump
did not bleed. I thought it should hurt.
the kind doctor carried my severed limb
without reverence to a long planked table
where he set it on a clean cloth. my ex
was the first to grab utensils and dig in
smiling around mouthfuls of me. his sister
picked daintily at my meat, complaining
about her allergies and her asthma. he rolled
his eyes and wiped his mouth with the final
decree of divorce that arrived in the mail
when I related this strange dream
to my mother, she said "gangrene".
* first appeared in Thunder Sandwich #17, April 2002.