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Flee While There’s Still Something Left
David Bruzina
The surgeon learns you’ll always reach for sweets,
for too rich a cheese,
for too thick a slice of meat,
and so, sadly while you sleep,
to teach you indifference towards
what you can’t have,
he gently removes your reaching hand –
Never mind if something besides
the strength of your desires
diminishes.
The surgeon knows you’ll be a finer person
when he finishes.
A stronger, sleeker,
more confident public speaker,
your steps will lighten,
your thighs tighten –
He sobs and clips,
testing your sleeping responses with potato chips,
passing one under your nose to observe
the flaring of your nostrils
and your upper lip’s curve.
And before he goes,
he plants a kiss on the thread-puckered
skin-colored rose
he’s sewn
at the end of your wrist.
In all his letters,
he still declares
his love for you alone.
Caring, he insists to the buzzing telephone,
means striving always
to make the Beloved better –
