Endoscopy Without Anaesthesia
. . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . The cord slunk into my anus.
On a TV screen:
walls
. . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . of slick pink flesh
. . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . a web of blood vessels,
like red trees
. . . . . . . . . . . . . . branching toward the camera.
. . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . In the corner
. . . . . . . . . . . . a wet, yellow-green lump.
. . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . The screen shuttered
. . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . as a nurse snapped
. . . . . a photograph.
“Stool,” she said.
“Okay, you may feel some discomfort,” a doctor said.
. . . . . . . . . The tube slithered in deeper
. . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . and grazed the wall of my gut.
I hissed, huddled my face
. . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . in the hospital bed’s
crib-like bars.
. . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . On screen, a claw flicked forth
. . . . . . . quick as a switchblade.
. . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . Standing over me, the doctor cooed,
in the timbre of a father,
. . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . “Just take deep breaths.”
Jackson Sabbagh grew up in Salem, Massachusetts. He studied poetry at Sarah Lawrence College and is getting his MFA at University of Florida. He people-watches, does drag, and has anxiety.
–Art by Rona Keller