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The Locust Tree

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In a corner of our yard
lived an old black locust,
a thick, unclimbable beanstalk
I never remember as pretty.
Beneath a neighbor’s maple tree
I could lie on my back
and feel my ten-year-old life
working, breathing.
Sweeping my arms up
through the cool grass,
up above my head:  
inhale, I was alive;
down to my side,
exhale, I was dead;
sweeping them up again,
I was still alive.

Nothing lived under the locust:
not gardens,
not grass,
just a dry play-field of
dead thorny branches
and tiny, dirty, yellow leaves,
trained pitilessly
on companies of toy soldiers
ranging for fights—
detritus, then,
raked weekends into cemeteries
for green plastic men
who might have gladly
raised their arms,
surrendering
beneath a maple tree.

Gavin W Sisk
September 2020


Pain Management

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A while back, maybe ten years ago, I was referred to a specialist to have a growth on the tip of my tongue evaluated. It turned out to be a tumor, and though not particularly dangerous, the doctor decided to remove it then and there. I agreed. The problem, he warned, was that numbing my tongue would likely hurt even more than simply cutting the growth off cold turkey. Being a guy, I agreed with that too. 

Out of a drawer came a weird looking metal device, which the doctor clamped to my tongue for stretching into a pained caricature of Gene Simmons. And before I could mumble an objection, he whipped out a number-ten samurai sword and and began whittling (or whatever doctors do with number-ten samurai swords) away at the tumour. I almost passed out. I have been hurt many, many different ways, but never like that – never to that extent. 

The doc apologized for the pain, but reasserted he had no practical alternative. I’m a guy, so I tearfully agreed. As consolation I rolled out the door with a bottle of Oxycodone and tried to forget the whole experience.

________

The kitten hangs out on my pillow in the early morning. She thinks my hands are prey, and when I stir she swipes lightly at whatever inattentive fingers sneak out from the covers. This morning she actually caught one. The needle sharp, middle fish hook on her right paw got lucky and caught the pad of my left middle finger. It stuck. We played tug-of-war for five seconds, middle finger to middle claw, while we both screamed obscenities at each other. Once she finally unlatched, my eyes uncrossed and the poor (uninjured) kitten ran off to hide.

________

Pain is more interesting if it can be compared to prior experience. When you hit your thumb with a hammer, you instinctively relate it to something like being stung by a wasp. If your Corvette falls off the jack stands onto your chest, you might compare it to the time you raced your motorcycle into a wall. So it goes for everyone, I think – though maybe not the motorcycle part. But so it goes for me. I can tell myself that no matter how much it hurt for my kitten to finally catch her mouse, it’s nothing compared to having a vivisection performed on my tongue. And that’s strangely comforting to consider.

________

A while back, I started having a problem with my throat that causes me to walk around grunting and coughing like a sick gorilla. I’ve been referred to a specialist, whom I’ll be seeing tomorrow. He’s the same doctor who slayed my tongue ten years ago and he now plans to shove some sort of optical device down my throat to take pictures and help diagnose the problem. No one has mentioned anything about pain management. 

Now I’m anxiously wondering, fish hook or samurai sword?

Gavin W Sisk

Watering the Horse

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“…pain…lots…sometime in the next ten days…without warning…”

The doctor might as well have warned my penis will fall off sometime in the next ten days.  So how does one wait for something that’s possibly more painful—and less productive—than childbirth?  With practice slides down a giant sword into a vat of iodine?  Or nude skydiving through a Saharan sandstorm?  Maybe body surfacing at a dry ice plant in Juneau?  All three?  But in the meanwhile, I have to pee.  I have to pee now and I’ll have to pee again in fifteen minutes.  Except, I really won’t have to pee at all.  My brain says, “Warning, sir!  Your urine reservoir is nearing critical capacity.”  I reply that I peed just fifteen minutes ago, during the last ad.  Then—

“Negative, sir.  It is time to relieve your bladder.”

“Are you kidding?  You can’t say that while the leaders are on the eighteenth green.”

“I am sorry, sir.  If you prefer, it is time to drain the dragon.”

“Dragon?  I appreciate the compliment, but I really can wait.”

“Would you consider leaking the lizard, sir?”

“That’s the same thing.  Leave me alone.”

“I know you are a reasonable man.  How about paying the water bill, sir?”

“Clever, but I’m staying put.”

(Five, four, three, two, one…)

“Damn it!  I’ll be right back.”

“Very good, sir.”

(Fifty-five, fifty-six, fifty-seven…)

“Nothing!  There was nothing!”

“Did you not make the bladder gladder, sir?”

“NO!”

“I am sorry, sir.  My sensors are normally quite reliable.  But do you not think there is still some steam to release from the radiator, sir?”

“There’s some steam, but it’s not in my radiator.”

“I am regretful of your present circumstance, sir.  Perhaps, after the next television ad, you will be able to shake some dew off the lily.”

“What?  Where are you getting this stuff?”

I am sorry, sir.  You left your tablet open.  Shall we change the subject to last night’s French lesson?”

“Lesson?  Uh, sure.”

“Tres bien Monsieur.  Oui oui maintenant?”

“That’s not real French.  Damn it, now I have to go again.”

“To splash the pirate, sir, or to fight the fire?”

“No, to visit the wizard, smart ass.  I know a few of those, too.”

“I am impressed, sir.  I took you as a piddly man.”

“What!?”

“I am sorry, sir.  I was going to say you could point piddly Percy at the porcelain.”

“Screw you.”

“Sir, I am your brain.  You have been screwing with me for a period of decades.  Is this a self-indictment?”

“Screw you twi…  Damn it!  I’ll be right back.”

“Leave no stone unturned, sir.”

 

 

Gavin W Sisk

July, 2016