Excerpt from B’KLYN

A small taste of the prodigious Richard J. Fein’s work. BHB has published multiple collections of poetry from Fein. The following poem is from his most recently published collection, B’KLYN. 

The Patient

Lunar antlers sprout from ears,

droop, blacken, thicken, merge

into a cold zodiac roving

on my chest and back, followed

by two thumping fingers.

A chaste-white duster—

starched, creaseless, glossy,

its flat, crisp, linear pockets

like slits sealed into the cloth—

deploys, Indian file, four-eyed

buttons that light on me:

“A CATscan, EKG, carotid duplex.”

A punctured neck bells out

from a clipboard and a bulbous thumb

presses on a nub, and a point scurries

across a pad I never see,

and my gurney’s steered away

while I’m staring at the ceiling

panels’ systematic perforations

that change to random wormy nicks,

and slabs of fitted frosted glass

that change to ice tray grids

with their neon cubes—

and I’m delivered to an alcove

where a technician jiggles my bracelet,

my name purplish, stamped and smudged,

and I hear my blood gurgling on a screen.

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