you back into the elements with hardened words after you have
done figure eights on I-69 south. The band saw nurses buzz their
blue beauty of care into your smile. Why are you smiling? The
anesthesiologist blocks your left leg, gives your spine the needle
that numbs your bottom half, all to repair the partially ruptured
tendon named after a demigod. You regurgitate a color wheel
from cheese crackers and sprite, in the face of an unflinching
mother and frenetic nurses. To siphon down your bladder from
the pressure to keep you hydrated, the catheter snaked into the
urethra of your penis by the friendly nurses does not agitate you,
for your bottom half was still comatose. You fill two containers
with the liquid from your insides. You just want to go home to
release more piss. You barely get back into your own driveway.
The snow punishes you like a Saturday bully looking for Sugar
Babies. You want your mother too. To come back down and get
you from your SUV, while you watch ghosts escape your mouth.
The air feels like ice cubes freezing. A neighbor assists in getting
you and your crutches through crunching snow. Left leg’s still
numb from the block. You elevate it against a halo of Christmas
lights. Where is the angel? As you wait for your eyes to blacken.
–Curtis L. Crisler,
Black Achilles
(Accents Publishing)
Curtis L. Crisler’s forthcoming poetry book, “This” Ameri-can-ah, will be released in 2015 (Cherry Castle Publishing). His books are Pulling Scabs (nominated for a Pushcart), Tough Boy Sonatas (YA), andDreamist: a mixed-genre novel (YA), and his poetry chapbooks areWonderkind, Soundtrack to Latchkey Boy, andSpill. He’s been published in many magazines, journals, and anthologies. He is Associate Professor of English at Indiana University-Purdue University Fort Wayne, and a Cave Canem Fellow.