To My Prospective Surgeon

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I have not come to be bled
by any tame physician. I want
a bolder hand, one who can cut
firmly, deeply, near the bone—
one who does not flinch
when I cry out. I crave cruelty
and brilliance and sangfroid
to deliver up my steaming blood
onto the steeled table. Gut me,
grasp my febrile heart. Take my
too too sullied body. Take me, love.

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AmyfriendAmyfriendabout 17 years ago
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Take my feverish heart. Very creative poem, thanks.

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