Splinter
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Splinter
“Do what you need to,” I said.
As though this was extracting
an arrowhead buried in flesh,
not a sliver of wood from a pinky.
She my officemate, colleague,
friend. But not –
it occurred to me as she started
to probe – a surgeon.
Probably hadn’t fingered
a forceps in years.
What I warn my patients
against every day –
not wise to compromise
with convenience.
I had no fear of pain.
A dozen tours in the OR,
years of drawing blood –
we learn to distance,
numb ourselves.
Numb ourselves, that is,
to the pain of another –
my pinky should have taken
itself to Urgent Care.
Maybe there was hurt,
but I never noticed.
All I recall is a flood
of sweetness, a drowsy
warmth, as when the world
is about to go dark.
Sometimes as we’re falling
we hear a voice calling
in the distance.
“Oh, shit – going vagal,”
this one said.
It sounded like mine.
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