Flap Method

Flap Method

To what measure of torture
would I submit for her
to hear just one
of my poems?
And after

         agreeing to the
anesthesia-free removal
of my leg will I renege
when surgeon’s teeth 
catch femur?

I’ve bitten through
the leather strap and
thrown the whiskey up.
The only lines I recall
are from a limerick,

There once was a beautiful
dancer

whose torso had filled up with
. . .



Perspective

This is my bedroom, but these glowing buttons
are not my bed. Barrel-bellied puppies tug-of-war
with my intestines. I make myself mimic the squealing.

Outside the window is night that feels like 2 a.m.
with blank faces intermittently appearing through the panes.
I’m begging for one of them, please, to bring another pill but

my throat is prickly dry, my voice barely a quiet croaking.
The thing I liked was ice-chips. The gravel sound of a spoon
digging down, soothing. They’d glide around my mouth on their

own melt. I try to think when the pain wasn’t braided in me,
cleavering my breath. I don’t complain that they never bring the pill
soon enough. I think to ask them how they’d like it. An I.V. is rumored

to be set up soon. I ask where. They answer, by the bookshelf. I ask what for.
I recall the vague, wet movement of a mouth, but not the sound of an answer.

Mike L. Nichols is a graduate of Idaho State University and a recipient of the Ford Swetnam Poetry Prize. He lives and writes in Eastern Idaho. Look for his poetry in Rogue Agent, Tattoo Highway, Ink&Nebula, Plainsongs Magazine, and elsewhere. Find more at deadgirldancing.net

Leave a Reply

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

WordPress.com Logo

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

Google photo

You are commenting using your Google 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 )

Connecting to %s