It starts like this: the clamps around my wrists.
The little Saturn ring around my head,
The wooden chair, the arms still warm, though dead;
Then the electric thrill, the arch, the twist;
The expiation just before the twist,
The quick reform of madame in her bed,
The spasm, the welcome-wagon for something newly wed;
Or the ambulance, the sirens, the sudden lisp.
It makes me so serene.
It ties me to a rock
And sends me swimming.
It causes quite a scene
To feel the wood and stone become a dock
To hear the pastoral in endless singing.
Copyright © 1982 M. B. McLatchey. All rights reserved.