The anaesthetic nurse, with her calm
bedside manner, talks me through
the panic of having to stay in line
for the oncoming whiteout.
Seven engines rev up in a metallic choir.
I breathe, two inhales at a time, synced
with the arctic blizzard humming
against the glass.
From the backseat, she whispers
encouragements, sedating me
with an artificial confidence.
Soothing, recognised
like the preschool teacher when I was torn
away from my mother. Throws kicks
across the screen, shaking wheels,
impartial to our humanity.
They're professionals. You're in good hands.
But it’s hard trusting strangers with your
life and your body, when the vehicle
is yours to control.
She reassures me that it’s over soon.
The convoy jolts and I wake up
from a trance, slowly rediscovering
my body in the driver’s seat.
She smiles in the mirror like a kind tutor.
You did great! You didn't even cry.
I’ve learned some things about
condescension, and still,
I melt into the uncomfortable attention
on my infantile accomplishment.
A 'good boy' compliment –
I regress back into
a seven-year-old teacher’s pet.
Affection is a medication given
only to starved adults, and I will
gladly be sedated again.
The crossing was only an operation,
and the operation is complete.