Getting Undressed


It’s the familiarity of the hospital gown,
the talk of white socks. My name written
as a new born, the constant confirmation
of date of birth, the need to be sure who I am.
It doesn’t get any easier to pronounce
my consent to procedures I claim to understand.

When I look at my insides on television,
I don’t recognise myself in those magnified walls
they’re considering removing. I have no idea
what I’m looking at. The nurse says
it’s a wonderful drug, you won’t remember a thing.

But it has all come back to me,
the pictures on the ceiling, the long rolling shiver
down a corridor I could walk if they’d let me,
the swinging of the doors and the little bump,
the sweet relief of putting my own clothes back on.


One thought on “Getting Undressed

Leave a Reply

Fill in your details below or click an icon to log in: Logo

You are commenting using your account. Log Out / Change )

Twitter picture

You are commenting using your Twitter account. Log Out / Change )

Facebook photo

You are commenting using your Facebook account. Log Out / Change )

Google+ photo

You are commenting using your Google+ account. Log Out / Change )

Connecting to %s