Chana Bloch


scours his brain.
When they wheel him back 
he has a just-wiped look on his face,  					 
cool and shiny.	
But where does the pain go?					 
The doctor wrings out the dishrag
and hangs it up to dry. 

He can start over, revised, 
an airbrushed photograph					    
with a girlish innocence around the eyes. 
He's a tourist with only one shirt, and he's wearing it. 
How light he feels. 
He has dumped the cargo that made him founder,		
the two-ton crates where rage				 
pounded in the nails.  

“What's your name? Who's your wife?
Your children?”  
His eyes flicker.  				     
His new face, blank as an eggshell,
bobbles in the current.