Misdiagnosis
There’s something wrong with my head
it’s too tight, it’s a round black shape
on the pavement where the grand piano fell
six storeys and flattened my skull
There’s something wrong with the sky
it’s the colour of a bruise and smells
of burnt toast. Do you hear that noise?
Someone’s shredding the blue
There’s something wrong with my mouth
everything tastes of brine
or rubbery seaweed and when I swallow
pebbles catch in my throat
There’s something wrong with the clock
that stuck on the 16th of April,
five forty-five, when the telephone rang
and the cuckoo choked
There’s something wrong with my legs
because they want to sit down
all the time but when they do
they want to run away
There’s something wrong with the game
of doctors and nurses. Sitting in a circle
to pass the parcel. The muzak cuts
as they give me – BOOM!
There’s something wrong with my heart
so the surgeon opens me up. They snip
my hairspring and mislay the ticks:
close with a dropped stitch.
There’s something wrong with the message
the punctuation stutters and the name
is smudged. Her name must be wrong.
Wouldn’t that explain everything?
Siobhan Logan has published two books of poetry & non-fiction with Original Plus Press and two with Space Cat Press. She has also lectured in Creative Writing at De Montfort University, UK. spacecatpress.co.uk