Worm Guy

DANIEL ENJAY WONG

 

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I became acquainted with human anatomy
by way of a worm, printed black,
an ellipse bearing eyes, mouth, and anus.

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The contours that mark the creature's boundaries
are definite: the curve of its primordial spine,
the lining of the tube channeling its sustenance.

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Thus, too quickly, I may have mistaken art for life.
Mapping the worm's pleura fountain-red,
I exhaled, believing that I understood breath.

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The first time I witnessed an infant put under,
I saw myself writhing on the operating table
and turned away, feigning momentary blindness.

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We confirmed the site on our tranquil charge—
right, not left—and the surgeon stretched. Remember
the first cut, a ribbon of blood flanked with white?

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I still dream with that acuity. My childhood welled
with myopia, days spent gazing at smears of maple.
I assumed leaves were not meant to be seen.

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The comfort of soft focus, the ease
of gentler lines. Nothing
blurs the sting of a bleeding edge.