my body slab-flat on a metal table;
my jaw pulled toward the ceiling;
my tongue held to make room for the rigid
tubes in my throat. Nurses swaddle my legs
in warm blankets simply because I said I’m cold.
Straps secure across my thighs because feral
when unconscious, survival brain will try to keep
anyone out. But I signed the forms for anything
that goes wrong or right for the hours I am
given to the professionals reaching into my chest.
Cradling pieces of my flesh and bone, they know of me
what I never will: the color of the inside of my lungs;
the sound a wheeze makes with my larynx exposed;
the crippled state of my blood before it reaches the heart.
Kristin Entler was diagnosed with cystic fibrosis at 6 months old, and first came out as LGBT+ several years after her diabetes diagnosis at 12 years old. She currently serves as Poetry Editor for NELLE and lives with her service-dog-in-training, Azzie, whose name is short for the Greek God of Medicine. Entler can be found in publications such as The Bitter Southerner, Porter House Review, and BOOTH, among others, as well as on twitter @findmycure.
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"... they know of me what I never will." I think that is my favorite line in this very interesting poem by Kristin Entler.