Tonsillectomy

This poem, by Farah Ghafoor, explores synthetics in processes and personality.

see, you were a doctor.

see, I was a virus, a tumor, an obstacle

to your breathing, swallowing and

suctioned to you with a surplus of pixie dust

(but of course, you didn’t know that

because magic isn’t real, right?)

 

see, an atheist told me that eyes

really are windows to the soul, so I scrubbed

your irises with antiseptic until they gleamed

but it seems that I forgot to clean my own.

I found something rather undesirable

and slipped through your optic nerve.

 

see, I almost forgot about the whole “soul” part

and found a home in the crevices of your gyri.

sure, it was deep and it was dark

but you taught me the surgeon’s alphabet

in anagrams in order to whisper pretty things

that people seem to worry about.

 

see, around here people have tasted pluots

and glycerin and roses in your throat.

all I found were dead ends

in hidden caves, deep inside cavities.

all I found was a uvula never belonged to me.

 

so now whomever you Hollywood-smile at

will see me here: attached to the back

of your mouth, hanging like sour apples

and growing only the best remedies.

 

 

Farah Ghafoor is a fifteen year old poet and a co-founder/editor at Sugar Rascals. She lives in Canada where she enjoys smelling perfume samples and thinks she deserves a cat. Her work is published or forthcoming in Alexandria Quarterly, alien mouth, Really System, Moonsick and elsewhere.
Art by Heidi Li.
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