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I’d rather be a lobster,
in pre-op, not knowing
whether I’ll fail
on the surgeon’s table.

The lobster has plans:

he can tear away
a limb in battle,
scrinch off home
and await new growth.

I’ve no such armour

only this ape’s design
that frees my arms
to hold onto people
who’ll shield my heart.

Madness, to a lobster

who keeps his head down
the shape of him claiming
that meat appears
that fight happens

miles from the ape

with her brain a fruit
in the treetops seeding
chatter and quips
while her fingers crack lice.

I wake up later

stitched into myself,
embracing the nurses
embracing you
making light

© Christy Ducker 2015

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