The Poetry of Joan Houlihan

Surgeon Speaking

Lie down. I am hand and finger
to you, intent in my medium,
fluent in what flourished before
guided by the noise of trapped being.

I was yours at birth, privy to your washings
and waste. Words spoken by us
are lysis and ligature. What matters
is the gash, the possible rush

between us. How to conduct the bleeding?
Bent to you, I provide from my fingers
something small and mammal,
parted from one discarded.

Ten hours of us and we are wed.
Mumbling of vein, I finish you,
who will emerge new-made, doll-sewn.
The furthest thing from my mind.

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