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 madam 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 stillness singing.
Listen to the author's audio version on Cold Mountain Review's website.
Copyright © 1982 M. B. McLatchey. All rights reserved.
Published in Cold Mountain Review, Spring 2016.