Diana Darby ** "I V" ** Intravenous

The Wrong House

It’s getting dark
and I am here in the den
writing.
This morning has been a mix
of threatening phone calls
and fainting men.
Too much fury before my eyes.
Too much anger.
I am the frog on the biology table,
cut in half,
intestines explored
with blunt instruments.
Eyes pulled out of sockets.
Limbs held back
flat
against the board,
against their will.
How many times have I been cut opened?
The stench of death around me?
When the morning fell I was there.
And though I tried to help
I was just a stranger
in it all.
It didn’t matter if I were guilty or innocent.
The giver of breath
and fire.
I was in the wrong house.