Guy Stephenson

Infusions

Catheter

I lie, trying to relax while she gently takes an arm, turns my hand palm up, binds it then strokes to find the vein. The left arm proves more troublesome, requires a second attempt which hurts and she apologises.

Eyes half closed against the overhead light, my mind conjures a never-to-be-forgotten tv image, a bird’s-eye view:

the man, strapped down on a gurney by leather bands, arms outstretched, cannulas with tubes which trail out of shot, witnesses dimly visible through a window. . .

     brusque ministrations—a profane crucifix

Ablation

While I wait for a porter to take me to theatre I look out through the rain at the plumes from the municipal incinerator. They drift west over the city. I examine the shorn grasses of Blackrock College below my window; hear tinny chimes from the college clock.

A sting and ache in each arm from the cannulas—one for drugs, one just in case, she said.

In case of what? I wondered aloud.

You don’t want to think about that, she said.

drizzle drifts 
the fog clears from my mind—
steady heartbeat

---

About the Author

Guy Stephenson has been writing and publishing haibun since 2016. He has also published other forms of poetry and is interested in aspects of art such as gardens, ceramics, and cooking. He lives in Donegal, North West Ireland.