A poem by William S. Kilgore
Some years back,
my arteries clogged.
Technology provided a surgical fix.
On the surgeon’s table,
backwards from ten …
and the clock slowed down its ticks.
While I was out,
placed on bypass,
the surgeons completed their charge.
Under anesthesia,
there’s no REM sleep.
Yet, what’s recalled sure does loom large.
There was this cafe,
full of talking people.
Among them, loved ones, now long gone.
I sat down at a table,
across from my grandparents,
hearing hushed secrets, now long foregone.
We talked for a bit.
Grandfather looked serious.
Gee Gee, as always, immersed me in a smile.
When I was finally brought out,
most of it faded away quickly.
Wisps of smoke, lasting only a tiny while.
Remaining fragments suggest,
that, in that bypass state,
more is going on than what it seems.
A phenomenon, not unknown.
But, though it is named,
none understand these “surgical dreams.”
I researched this strangeness
when I was home, recovering,
with no firm conclusions I could reach.
There are several varying theories
(Summary: they don’t know),
as to the source of such “non-dream” dreams.
So, I’ve chosen to hold on tightly
to that which I do recall:
Seeing my grandparents one more day.
Though, what I don’t recall
continues to haunt me,
as I have to wonder: What did they say?
LogoSophia Magazine 