It bothered me as a child that general
anaesthetic relieved not only pain, but also
consciousness of pain; or else not pain
at all, but only consciousness - the nerves
shrieking into deaf ears, so that later
the body is withdrawn, mistrustful, like
the boy who whinged about his broken wrist
all afternoon and was ignored till bathtime
revealed the swelling. I feared interruption,
though: not disconnection from the body's irks
but some derailing of the train of thought
that ran through even sleep's eventful tunnel -
not knowing if the me who came back round
would be the me I left there when I went
wherever the injections send you. This at eight
or nine, threatened with treatment for a squint
that righted itself in time (at eighteen, boozing
blew hours straight off my memory's dandelion
clock, and waking to the body's held-back
grudges was a midday ritual).
Dominic
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