BROKEN

by Dorothy Mack

                Turned on Stryker bed dreams, blood wells
                   purple in each bruise; gauze stockings
                   cover both calves and toes; starched gown
                   bites the back. 

                Nose up, head arched, held in metal
                   halter hung with weights, thirty pounds
                   three black weights to pull pincered head,
                   shaved skull back.

                Body strapped to pulsating bed,
                   whoo-oosh, whoo-oosh; chin, skull and eyes
                   yank l-2-3-flip as they turn
                front to back.

                No more white tile pinhole count, nor
                   ceiling sun, day for the spinning
                   body; now black tile floor swirls night,
                   sole struggle to sleep.

                Three hours back; one hour front; flipped 
                twelve times a day, six revolutions
                   round this small planet: three black weights,
                   white square universe.

                Night comes six times a day to this
                   spiraling world, till deep vortex
                   recedes, orbit steadies, and night
                   again comes once a day.

                Waking, I watch your body yanked
                   and flipped; dizzy, I stare at your
                   unblonde head silenced by halo,
                   fear encircling me too.

                Trembling, I mourn certain loss
                of myself, cannot offer comfort,
                   kind words, some God, having no sure
                   axis on which to turn.

                                                            For C.K.