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