Hernia

Arrow indicating groin
this way to theatre, checking
always checking name and birth date.
Yearning for the taste of blood
tortures of unseen incisions
scalpels cutting deadened beefsteak
to the chat of solemn surgeons
nerveless hands inside my body
restless on the narrow table
glaring lights and pallid faces;
blue coats all around are checking,
always checking vital signals.
Are you OK? Dry mouth muted
wet blades slicing, silent screaming
stitched and shuffled onto trolley
flopping into cold white sheets
I lift the nightshirt and peruse
my painted thighs and white net panties
bruised fruit pendulous and sudden
pain came technicolour, blinding.