THE REAL ME
The doctor holds my x-ray up to the light.
So that's me is it.
He examines it for some time
though his face remains noncommittal.
It looks to me like Jesus on the cross
with angel wings.
He finally has to admit that I'm healthy.
So why all the death symbols?
It takes the incessant ping
of electromagnetic radiation
to get where I'm really coming from.
That's where the spots get worse than tricky.
That's where the fluids want pumping
not pissing out.
My doctor knows who I am.
The rest of you are just faking it.
"How did it go?" my wife asks.
"I'm Jesus on the cross
with angel wings."
"Is that good or bad?"
Good for me.
Bad but necessary for Jesus.
Fact is, our love is based on a lie.
If only she knew my chest cut open,
my fleshy valuables inside.
Or could get up close with my bones.
Or see my heart for the pumping
myogenic muscular organ it is.
she had to go and marry
the outside of me.
And ugly or handsome,
you still can't die of your face.
John Grey is an Australian born poet. Recently published in International Poetry Review, Vallum and the science fiction anthology, “The Kennedy Curse” with work upcoming in Bryant Literary Magazine, Natural Bridge and the Oyez Review.
Post a Comment