laparoscopic ovenbird In the twisting tunnels of her guts a tiny defect, carried since childhood, makes itself known. The magicians, with their x-ray vision, look inside and fix their gaze on the hoary fragment, and whisper into the rustling paper of their masks. This flaw must be excised so they bring their potions and knives and cut away what might have killed her if this were another time and another place. Reassembled she sits in bed and types casual notes to her children. It’s fine. No complications. I’ll be going home soon. If they could cut away the part of me that aches when pressed by life’s cold hands I would make them put it in a jar, floating in a brine of formaldehyde, and I would place it by the window where the light could pass through offending flesh. And every day I would unscrew the cap and sip the broth of my own despair, because love is flavourless without the salted yolk of everything you stand to lose. 260422 what's it to you? who go blather from