It wasn’t the windowless room,
the edges of the walls mixing with harsh light
while waiting for the doctor’s knock.
Or the sweat-leather straps and buckles braided into her hair.

It wasn’t the operating utensils on the steel tray,
the scalpel that looked more like a butter knife
and the drill plugged in, lying on the floor.
Or even the way the doctor complimented her posture,
as if a stiff chin was more valuable than a working brain.

And it wasn’t the taste of copper that filled her mouth
before she closed her eyes, not wanting to see
him squint at the black dot sketched
in the center of her forehead
before picking at it like a tender scab.

It was the way she sang “My Country ‘Tis of Thee,”
forcing words out after each prod of the ice pick, soft lips flinching
until the tool garbled her song to silence
and the surgery finally stopped.