Chirality
Stacy Nigliazzo
I see myself, always
through a stark looking glass
the fun house view of my own face
reflected in the eyes of my patients–
tangled in the bleeding strands
that line the gray sclera of the meth addict
drowning in the pooling ink that splits
the swelling pupil of the hemorrhagic stroke
swimming in the antibiotic slather
that blurs the newborn’s first gaze–
my clouded countenance,
ever present–
slipping even through parched flesh
along the steely glide of the angiocath
glistening in the fluid bag
of intravenous medication
glaring back
from the sliding metal siderail–
twelve hours streaming from my skin
like an open wound in the scrub sink
face to face
in the soap-splattered mirror–
only then,
do I look away.
About