defibrillation

I had one of those seizures
where my breath trapped in my chest
and my
heart slammed
like a fist beating
a punching bag.

It flashed me back to
the lab:

A table of four chicks;
two nursing students,
one pre-med,
one humanities.
 
The 1970s-puke-green walls,
the Formica countertops with the
odd flecks of slate and silver,
and the vague smell of
old books and formaldehyde
always filled me with apprehension.

On dissection days,
I’d take the notes.

I didn’t want to stick the identification pin in the
prefrontal cortex of the quivering
dead sheep’s brain,
or do the ‘oh fuck!’ hop
away from the cow’s eyeball
when the scalpel pierced the
cornea and the viscous fluid
shot out.

I took the fucking notes
so I didn't have to get my
hands
dirty.

But I couldn’t escape the circulatory system.

I couldn’t get out of handling the pig’s heart.

I had to stick my fingers in the tricuspid valve to feel the atrium.
And do other impressive-sounding examinations
that wouldn’t do me a damn bit of good in a world
of art,
not science.

But it did teach me about the circulatory system
in such a way it’s never faded.
I’ve forgotten the names of most of the bones in my feet
but I will forever recall
the track of a lone drop of blood,
pumped to the lungs to get nourishment,
sent through the body delivering
the oxygen-rich goodies,
and once deprived of its O2,
back to the lungs for more.

Blood, an endless junkie
always seeking another
breath
to get a fix.

So when my breath is trapped,
and my heart is like a
has-been drummer
pounding skins at a dive bar
dreaming about glory days,
I know it's the loss
of oxygen.

Next time it happens,
I’m going to strap an oxygen mask to the
monitor
so the thought of not fucking you
doesn’t seize me up anymore.

I’m going to dab formaldehyde
behind my ears,
and pull on rubber gloves
to keep my hands clean.

I'm going to grab the
keyboard like a
scalpel
so I can

show you

where

the

atrium

is.