Phobia Poem by Patti Masterman

What kind of operation is required
to get something published?
Is it drive through or stay-overnight;
are there rooms of gowned surgeons,
with gleaming stainless instruments-

Or smelly drunks, with whiskey breath,
broken beer bottles and rusting lengths
of stolen barbed wire;
tourniquets of old socks-
there to make the necessary cuts?

It's arcane knowledge no one seems to have;
are the castrations done at midnight,
or two p.m. over afternoon tea?
With stale donuts from the day old bread store,
or fresh baked from early that morning?

Is there a silencer on the gun,
only a dirty rag to bite down on?
I want real morphine, dammit-
not soothing words to calm me

But mostly I think, I’m afraid to hear their screams-