The Anaesthetist

This rubber pump in my hand sighs, pants, and wheezes
for you, my dear. Nighty-night, Ms Prynn.
Forbuoy approaches to wheel you in.
He is the theatre orderly. He is theatrical,

whipping off the dark green sheet like a tablecloth,
leaving you with nothing much to fall back on.
You are well under now, a gleaming cold matron.
Forbuoy is messing about with his pink slop

The surgeon pulls latex over his finger joints;
the nurse displays her swift knives and forks.
Forbuoy and his shadow start to snigger, the oiks,
in the holy second of waiting

The present, powerful, naked Ms Prynn
glows and is bold, illumined further
bv the big lamp lowered like a flying saucer
as it hovers, stops.

Then round that star-lit table we are all drawn in.
You are turned and covered; your back basted pink
J touch your wrist, while you stumble in your Hades walk,
Ms Prynn, at the first, sharp rocks.