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Madison Scott-Clary
2019-12-23 23:05:11 -08:00
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content/gender/surgery/004.html
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The surgery
<div class="verse">There are so many words that could be said
about the preparation for surgery, all those steps that led
to that six-thirty AM call. The days of purging.
The anxiety. The drive. My husband's gentle urging.
That night in the Airbnb. That last shower with the Hibiclens.
All that has faded. It's distored at the edge of the lens
of my memory.
&emsp;&emsp;&emsp;&emsp;&emsp;&emsp;&nbsp; No, what remains is the two hours before:
the being so scared that I was reduced to the barest core.
There was nothing left of me but fear, not even a name.
I could still drive &mdash; the fear was quiet and tame &mdash;
I could get us to the ambulatory surgery waiting room.
But beyond that, I was a non-person. A convict. My doom
was in their hands.
<blockquote>Non-person? Doom? Give yourself at least some credit.
You still had agency. You still had a choice, could have not let it
happen. You say of travel that getting you there is their job:
you felt the same here. You crossed the doorway and let this mob
of nurses do theirs.</blockquote>
</div>

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<div class="verse">I
<div class="verse"><strong>I</strong>
Among twenty snowy mountains,
The only moving thing
Was the eye of the blackbird.
Was the eye of the blackbird.</div>
II
<div class="verse"><strong>II</strong>
I was of three minds,
Like a tree
In which there are three blackbirds.
In which there are three blackbirds.</div>
III
<div class="verse"><strong>III</strong>
The blackbird whirled in the autumn winds.
It was a small part of the pantomime.
It was a small part of the pantomime.</div>
IV
<div class="verse"><strong>IV</strong>
A man and a woman
Are one.
A man and a woman and a blackbird
Are one.
Are one.</div>
V
<div class="verse"><strong>V</strong>
I do not know which to prefer,
The beauty of inflections
Or the beauty of innuendoes,
The blackbird whistling
Or just after.
Or just after.</div>
VI
<div class="verse"><strong>VI</strong>
Icicles filled the long window
With barbaric glass.
The shadow of the blackbird
Crossed it, to and fro.
The mood
Traced in the shadow
An indecipherable cause.
An indecipherable cause.</div>
VII
<div class="verse"><strong>VII</strong>
O thin men of Haddam,
Why do you imagine golden birds?
Do you not see how the blackbird
Walks around the feet
Of the women about you?
Of the women about you?</div>
VIII
<div class="verse"><strong>VIII</strong>
I know noble accents
And lucid, inescapable rhythms;
But I know, too,
That the blackbird is involved
In what I know.
In what I know.</div>
IX
<div class="verse"><strong>IX</strong>
When the blackbird flew out of sight,
It marked the edge
Of one of many circles.
Of one of many circles.</div>
X
<div class="verse"><strong>X</strong>
At the sight of blackbirds
Flying in a green light,
Even the bawds of euphony
Would cry out sharply.
Would cry out sharply.</div>
XI
<div class="verse"><strong>XI</strong>
He rode over Connecticut
In a glass coach.
Once, a fear pierced him,
In that he mistook
The shadow of his equipage
For blackbirds.
For blackbirds.</div>
XII
<div class="verse"><strong>XII</strong>
The river is moving.
The blackbird must be flying.
The blackbird must be flying.</div>
XIII
<div class="verse"><strong>XIII</strong>
It was evening all afternoon.
It was snowing
And it was going to snow.
The blackbird sat
In the cedar-limbs.
In the cedar-limbs.</div>
<em>&mdash; Wallace Stevens</em></div>
<em>&mdash; Wallace Stevens</em>
### See also
* [Winter](https://ericwhitacre.com/music-catalog/winter) by Edward Esch