The Procedure
2 Minutes Read Time
It is over almost before
it begins: the blade drawn quick
and deep across the throat, air
exhaling softly from the trachea as the body
slackens into its final posture.
The mouth gapes. Its lips
pucker into the meditative O
of a sunfish held snug as you work to free the hook. Morphine
made the sleep deep, and though dark
blood soaks the mattress,
there is an air of release if not
relief.
Later, when the body awakens,
pale and drained yet saying that it feels much lighter, the gods
explain that the man inside the body
is much lighter. More than
a gallon empties out, they say with a smile. That’s twelve
and a half pounds you won’t
have to carry around anymore.
And what about this?
he asks, gently tracing the slit in his wind-
pipe with one finger. Turtlenecks
for a week, and then it
closes on its own. Just don’t let anything slip inside until then,
they say with a laugh.
He smiles faintly, takes the pen and clipboard they offer
to sign the release. So pretty much anything goes now,
right? Bacon, single-malt, cigarettes? Heroin?
Meth?
Get ready to consume, they say.
You can drink
a goblet of melted butter if you want.
The man signs his name
with a curlicue, hands back the pen.
My fingers are so white, he says.
Almost translucent, like
those weird fish that live in caves.
Honestly, one god says, you couldn’t be more white than you are
right now. Your body has finally been relieved
of duty. All the trouble has been drained away. The man nods
introspectively, then
smiles and says,
So, how long until my appetite returns?
Read more from Issue 17.2.
