You are performing open heart surgery in my living room,
cracking ribs with a hammer, surgical knife skirting the liver
while I slice halloumi, hot oil crackling in the pan over the roast
of sweet potatoes. I explain the controls, moving your hands;
the game requires an amount of manual dexterity you lack,
conserved for rolling tobacco on my porch. I pinch paprika and salt
to spice the dinner, Holst playing over the speakers with the
authentic crackle of charity shop vinyl. “Try removing the lungs.”
Outside we recline on plastic chairs, talking about the walls we build
around ourselves. A pigeon orbits the chimney, it’s shit hitting your head
with a splatter. Lucky in the well-timed idleness of a Monday night,
in the kitchen asking Alexa questions about animals;
“What noise does a hamster make?” They squeak like the
beep of the monitor as your patient bleeds out on the table.