Transplant Poem by Philip Hammial

Transplant

Rating: 2.7


Two 17th Century Dutch merchants are strolling in an orchard up & down between two rows of trees. They’re discussing the recent downturn in business due to competition from their Spanish counterparts. Each time they reach the end of a row they shout out numbers to a Chinese clerk sitting on a high stool. He makes rapid calculations on an abacus & shouts out the results. It doesn’t bode well for the patient on the operating table under an apple tree in the heart of the orchard. Like guardian spirits two nurses, a surgeon & an anesthetist in green gowns stand in a half-circle around him. Their mouths covered by masks, it’s impossible to tell if they’re frowning or smiling. And now, with the last number shouted out by the Chinese clerk – 3 – the patient falls asleep. The surgeon quickly slices his chest open, pries the ribs apart, exposes the throbbing heart &, reaching up without looking, arbitrarily plucks an apple from the abundant tree.

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Philip Hammial

Philip Hammial

Detroit, Michigan / United States
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