Scar Tissue by Kelley A Pasmanick

Merry-go-round music played as I lay on the table, and before that, “Here she comes just-a-walkin’ down the street singin’ doo-a-didee, didee-dum didee-do” blared from the radio. My six-foot-five Mormon orthopedic surgeon was just beginning his pre-op jam session with my second surgeon Dr. Hutchins joining him. The anesthesia smelled like strawberries.
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No. 142 20150619

It was my job to gather and launder
the lengths of black tape.

I would dream each night of a city
where sexy mummies toiled

I hide my normality like other people might hide an oddly-shaped mole or a dictator relation. When people ask me what I do, what I’m into, I say, I work in a circus. I trapeze. I float on a stream of air. No one believes me.

You can tell, can’t you? You’ve said that lie too, or maybe that’s what you wanted your lie to be. Circuses are universally cute.

I’m just kidding. I’m actually a marine biologist showgirl. I stand on dolphin’s noses. I lift one leg like this… if I close my eyes, I can feel it all right now. The bright coldness of the pool, the elevation of a disbelieving crowd, a creature under my control.

No, I haven’t seen blackfish. I like your glasses, by the way.

If you’re well prepared, you’ll bring scissors;
stems last longer if they’re cut rather than torn.
You promise that you saw pink ones
just a few hours ago, but in the muddy night
every bloom seems white.

There’s something like a cage
to protect the central pole from
who knows what, at this altitude.
There are plates and drums welded to it,
and wind you might
never come back from.