by Matt Schroeder

Mastectomy

Hang me like a lightbulb

in a third world country(

barely-held-together wire

in a house handed down

unfinished

by generations fled

upwards in hopes of

fewer elevator doors

opening in shoddy

hospital wings

not unlike hooded

crows that swarm in

an early winter sunset

where we’re given a

reluctant handful of

change into the lives of

the unconscious & prepped

for surgery as the doctors’

smokestack orchestra tunes

in the wings forming an

ever-rising symphony of

dust tossing a plastic

bag whatever sense of

normalcy high into the air

a cab driver apologizes

for his cigarette in a no smoking

zone as if such a thing existed

here worried eyes mouths tight

a sparrow finds said bag

singing heat wave distortions

only to realize it’s not its

lover but a Roma band

golden hour brass poorly tuned

drums breaking in the distance

setting over the horizon) & leave

me on until your mother comes home

Matt Schroeder is a poet and educator currently existing in the great humidity that is southern China. His poetry can be found in Thin Air Magazine and Dovecote Magazine. When he is not writing, he enjoys making friends with the other strays.