Wince, don't flinch,
I tell myself,
you have been here
before,
no doubt you will be here
again,
face down on an operating table,
completely cognizant,
getting stitched.

This fellow is good.
He talks me through,
explains: Purpose, technique, effect,
even identifies instruments -
intended audience?
Me,
naturally
and the ethereal Enya.

The icy plinking of 'Orinoco Flow'
accompanies the fierce tug-yanking
that is the darning of my skin.
I see hessian,
hear the punch of Lindsay's
fiercely curved needle
as he swiftly stitches up wheat bags,
then dismiss it.
I can feel
every distressing nociception*,
the sharp-electric-protest
but dissolve the transmission
the minute
it is pinpointed.

As I re-school my flesh to register no protest,
discipline pointless moisture,
the spiritual, almost hymnal reverie
of 'May it Be'
laps gentle against
my all-too-compliant consciousness.

Nociception (also nocioception or nociperception) is the encoding and processing of harmful stimuli in the nervous system,[1] and, therefore, the ability of a body to sense potential harm. (Wikipedia)

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