Hooking Up

Every night I hook up for 10 ½ hours,

not with a supernaturally virile man

but a dialysis machine.

All night long it grunts, groans, and moans,

pushing clean fluids into me,

sucking dirty ones out.



Like an ideal man in some fantasy relationship,

my dialysis machine sustains me,

cleanses me, gives me another day of life.

Of course, it’s a life without hope

of romance, relationship, passion, or sex,

since every guy I’ve told so far

has immediately shunned me,

without even a good-bye call or first kiss.



All day long, I carry reminders of these hook-ups:

a foot of tubing that issues from the hole in my belly

and a penis-like transfer set by which I attach to the machine’s tubes.

Each morning after I shower and change the dressing,

I place the transfer set in a baby sock,

wrap the sock with a ponytail tie,

then slip all this inside my panties,

hiding the evidence under my clothes.

All day long, this artificial penis

rubs against my crotch,

the closest I ever get now

to what everyone else calls a hook-up.