Wafting morning scent
Of waffles with maple syrup
Combines with a dirty diaper left too long in the pail
Connecting to tempera paint pots and brushes rinsed in glass jars of
Stunningly bright pastels spread on an easel
While wearing dadís oversized hand-me-down shirt buttoned backwards
As he gently encourages the reach beneath the downy underside
Of the clucking hen for a warm oval egg in the nest
To the yearning tug of a hungry mouth on the breast
Transforming to pebbly tapioca pudding
Rolling on the tongue reciting
The last stanza of "Dover Beach" in freshman English
Just down the hall of clanging lockers
To orchestra class where strains of "Clair de Lune" filter moonlight
Through the treetops while whoosh of owl wings
Are felt, not heard, sensed, not seen.
Aware of bright lights and whirring machines
The low voice of the surgeon asking
What do you see now, what can you hear, what odor
And flavor, what sensation on your skin
With each probe of temporal lobe, of fornix
Of hypothalamus hidden deep in gray matter
Of neurons and synaptic holding bins of chemical transmitters
Storing the mixed bag of past experience
To find the offending spot to be removed, to erase the electrical
Impulses that seize up all remembrance, all awareness
And be free again to live, to love, to swoon at the perfume
Of summer sweet peas climbing the peeling wall of the garden shed.
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