39
She’s a patient.
One of thousands
who go under his knife.
Her skin is stitched by now,
her pulse is slowing down.
She remembers her last trip,
the exotic terrains, dainty women,
beauty, dexterity and looms.
She considers that
when the surgeon retires,
once he leaves surgery behind,
he could harness all these efforts
and store them in his memory folds.
He could keep them all in files
of blank slates, or patients’ skins,
ones he etched on during
decades of cutting and stitching.
“When the surgeon retires,”
she mutters to herself,
“he could possibly put all
this wealth into good use.”
He may join millions of
nimble fingers
that cut and stitch,
all over the world.
He may take up weaving
or needlework.
He may mend the gender divide,
With a new hobby - of sorts.
“When the surgeon retires,”
she mutters to herself,
“he could possibly put all
this wealth into good use.”
He may join millions of
nimble fingers
that cut and stitch,
all over the world.
He may take up weaving
or needlework.
He may mend the gender divide,
With a new hobby - of sorts.