Anatomy Of A Song Poem by Morgan Michaels

The thing was finally strapped down tight and quite asleep.
drip, drip, drip, from the bag, thru the tubing, under the skin-
dewy fluids and a rapid, sliding bubble, round first, then oblong,
How thru its medium it squeezed, salmon-like!
graphs, monitors, stainless, blips, bleeps;
and, like camels padding a silk road, the up-thrown glyphs, evidencing life, tireless;
the easy purl of snoring:
snore, snore-this was anesthesia!
the gentle rise and fall of the rib cage.

'Let us begin', said the technician.
'Keep your eyes on the screen'.

In came the specialist, gloved green, who even masked, bore
an uncanny resemblence to Eddie Poe.
From a table she chose a scalpel and a pair of sterile pinking shears:
crunch, crunch.
Soon there were feathers-over the walls, on the floor,
sticky feathers everywhere; then flew out,
arpeggios, glissandi by the score,
groans and sighs galore but no proper blood.
diads, triads, quite a few fourths, some fifths,
sevenths, octaves, glorious augmentations.
and appogiaturas.

'My God'! she swore, in a sweat of wonder,
'the thing's all feathers! Suction, please'.
phytaphytaphytaphytaphytaphytaphytaphyta

It was cold in the room
Everyone had goose-flesh.
Everyone had back-aches.
Photos were snapped
For home viewing, later.
After three hours or more
The boys were sick of the deever
So they closed with catgut.

'Feathers' was the diagnosis.
'Too many and not enough'.
'One removed from craw'.