User Sends Poem That They Think Mirrors Ethics Enforcement Abuse
Under the thick beams of that swirly smoking light,
The black robes are clustering, huddled in together.
Hunching their shoulders, they spread short, broad sleeves
like night- Black grackles’ wings; then they reach bone-yellow
leathery fingers, each to each. And are prepared. Each turns
His single eye–or since one can’t discern their eyes,
That reflective single, moon-pale disc which burns
Over each brow–to watch this uncouth shape that lies
Strapped to their table. One probes with his ragged nails
The slate-sharp calf, explores the thigh and the lean thews
Of the groin. Others raise, red as pirate sails
His wing, stretching, trying the pectoral sinews.
One runs his finger down the whet of that cruel
Golden beak, lifts back the horny lids from the eyes,
Peers down in one bright eye malign as a jewel,
And steps back suddenly. “He is anaesthetized?”
“He is. He is. Yes. Yes.” The tallest of them, bent
Down by the head, rises: “This drug possesses powers
Sufficient to still all gods in this firmament.
This is Garuda who was fierce. He’s yours for hours.
“We shall continue, please.” Now, once again, he bends
To the skull, and its clamped tissues.
Into the cranial cavity, he plunges both of his hands
like obstetric forceps and lifts out the great brain,
Holds it aloft, then gives it to the next who stands
Beside him. Each, in turn, accepts it, although loath,
Turns it this way, that way, feels it between his hands
Like a wasp’s nest or some sickening outsized growth.
They must decide what thoughts each part of it must think;
They tap at, then listen beside, each suspect lobe;
Next, with a crow’s quill dipped into India ink,
Mark on its surface, as if on a map or globe,
Those dangerous areas which need to be excised.
They rinse it, then apply antiseptics to it;
Now silver saws appear which, inch by inch, slice
Through its ancient folds and ridges, like thick suet.
It’s rinsed, dried, and daubed with thick salves. The smoky saws
Are scrubbed, resterilized, and polished till they gleam.
The brain is repacked in its case. Pinched in their claws,
Glimmering needles stitch it up, that leave no seam.
Meantime, one of them has set blinders to the eyes,
Inserting light packing beneath each of the ears,
And caulked the nostrils in. One, with thin twine, ties
The genitals off. With long wood-handled shears,
Another chops pinions out of the scarlet wings.
It’s hoped that with disuse he will forget the sky
Or, at least, in time, learn, among other things,
To fly no higher than his superiors fly.
Well; that’s a beginning. The next time, they can split
His tongue and teach him to talk correctly, can give
Him opinions on fine books and choose clothing fit
For the integrated area where he’ll live.
Their candidate may live to give them thanks one day.
He will recover and may hope for such success.
He might return to join their ranks. Bowing away,
They nod, whispering, “One of ours; one of ours. Yes. Yes.”
– W.D. Snodgrass