[Recent poem about recent eye cataract operation. Image 'Auge im Himmel' by Loeser.]
Vulnerable
Early morning, unbreakfasted, vulnerable,
we old boomers sitting there, swaddled
infants, cocooned case-moths
in our warmed blankets cuddled
around bum-free gowns signalling we’re ready
for the knife or laser,
even if this one’s going in the eye,
units in a disassembly line inching forward
to the inner sanctum cutting-room.
But beyond the screens and purring machines
this conveyor belt is warm with humans.
First names, jokes, even the repeated Q&As
for the files are non-rote incantations
asked more sincerely than at mass,
every action or lack thereof
softly explained, like why
they’re still waiting for my bed.
This place is public, socialist and free.
A good place to meditate, just sitting
next to big Eddy, who’s two years older,
diabetic, the odd disquieting cough,
also getting his right eye done.
Maybe today is right-eye day.
We’re both marked with texta crosses
above that eye to guide
an overstretched staff’s beneficent artillery
that starts with a finely timed series
of intermittent drops.
Norma’s got one too,
she from the old folks’ home,
first in line, here since seven.
‘They got me up at three to shower,
it’s 9.30 now, and why
the name tag on the ankle too?’
‘Just in case we lose your leg.’
In the room where you’re deliciously
half knocked out, you praise progress
and the balms of Lethe (‘10 ml and 3 ml’).
The anaesthetist confirms a cataract op
killed JS Bach. He switches on
the overhead lamp and there’s a passing flash
of body-memory, painless recall
of that trauma tonsillectomy at the age of six.
Patch over left eye, the right is so drugged blind,
you don’t even know if it’s open.
Papery cartouche over your head,
you imagine the surgeon just sees the fried egg,
sunless side up, he’ll caress with his laser.
From in here within your eyeless eye
it’s a dull-grey aurora australis
where a see-sawing sun curves
up and down in an irregular rhythm
that suggests it’s human.
Other rhythms complexly overlay
this silent scrape of light:
a beep machine broadcasts the mechanics
of your bloodbeat’s numbers,
occasionally tightening pressure torniquet
reading your arm like a reassuring friend,
and somewhere a radio faintly playing pop.
Lens insertion is all membranous aquarium
quivering like a raindrop on glass.
Recovery is a culinary choice
between bread triangles, two carnivore,
two veg, no vegan (we’re boomers after all).
Half upper lip still rigid in a gangster sneer,
eating isn’t easy, and the coffee
soon gives you the runs.
Juggling your glasses over your post-op goggle,
you tick all the best boxes
on the staff feedback form.
Suddenly you find yourself hoping
all that kindness was more
than performance indicator and stat.
memengineering 