the hospital looks like


    a hotel one too cheto to actually stay in Who would have known such a thing existed in


    Argentina Rain hovers outside my umbrella is purple and there is a small green tube in


    my battered bag Yes I’ve been asked to bring my own tube for this ear surgery should


    this worry me Brought into a room with a man with sharp glasses who asks me to read


    papers in Castellano signing away my life will I wake up after the operation I sign my


    life in dull blue ink with a ballpoint and they take me into a locker room I am handing


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    the lady my tube If I hadn’t remembered would she have asked What would they have


    put in my ear instead I am expected to put on a paper sheet dress glasses locked into


    the green metal box I am now blind and they push me down into a wheelchair I am


    still conscious but still they drive me as though the end is near Everyone is a blur


    unfocused syllables and phrases walking all around me For once in Argentina I’m


    reminded that I’m usually short as doctors and nurses hombres y mujeres strutting


    above me I’m on wheels plunging neckline barefoot dignity left in that mint-colored


    locker too The operation table meets at my chest and the doctor is laughing he might


    be thirty as he asked me to scale the table and extend my wrist for the blessed IV I


    land on the table pale and distressed as a riverless fish Needle lodged in tough left wrist


    skin I am pulling down on my paper dress sterile lights like motionless strobe above he


    is still laughing and wiping his glasses I miss my own lights out