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I'm the surgeon.

My hand

has a perpetual

tremor and there is no record

of cadaver

of lecture and training

of knowing this, doing this, teaching this

in my background.

The Filipino scrub nurse

knows it

gives me inscrutable stare

behind her mask

glare of operating lights

opaquing her judgement, her eyes.

I'm your surgeon

and you are prepped and draped

laid before me

under

somewhere in the vapor. How you came

to be

sprayed with buckshot

is unknown to me

not in the record

not witnessed by anyone in this room. You'll

keep that mystery.

I excise you

bit by bit. I am

unqualified and the room

is silent what would they

love to say?

I have done

the best I could and

we have

both survived.

In the cold, and hush

I untie

my mask, my gown, remove

my gloves

and touch each one of your

wounds, then

climb up onto the table

beside you

and kiss

each place, with my mouth

my lips

to your broken skin

and whisper to you

with my hands

in your hair

This was mine to do.