DESCEND Driek Zirinsky I sign the permissions, hand my life over to strangers. I kiss you goodbye, take the elevator down to the operating assembly line, the door closes with a hiss. Down there I weigh in and strip of everything I brought with me, even my wedding ring as if I am being born in reverse, a naked thing without a mother to comfort me. I am laid out on my gurney inside a curtained cubicle and hear urgent voices, the squeak of rubber soles on linoleum, the tear of another curtain. They are next. The nurse tells me her name, struggles to ind a good vein for the iv. Already I am bloodless, a spirit thing trailing lines of tubes so I will not get lost. The surgeon rips my curtain back. He wears a dark suit, like a movie star. He says it’s a long wait today, they are behind schedule. He marks the site with a Sharpie. If anything is a mistake, it will not be that.
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