Knighted in the ER

Joan of Arc
in triage.
Elaine Benes
in triage.
Sobriety times three,
oh wait- you and I,
Jude and I, maybe.
Special request for
anesthesia from
an open container
and an open coffin.
Take the IV
and suck out the seduction.
Push my cheekbones
and find a new family.
I would do that for you.
Climb in the stretcher,
tuck me in white,
echo the newborn boy,
a doctor's refusal to tie our laces,
laced into the exorcist,
visioned the stream of tequila,
and all the lost moments
to play that DJ,
to curse the bartender,
to bow in our own rank.
Slayers, come only once
or twice into triage.
Belittling off fat,
stabbing men's digits,
dripping off curdled eyeliner.
An arcist by night
if only tears reeked battery.
I'd be your comedic sidekick,
bent into six mixed drinks,
a cloud of blood and vodka,
protected by your tin foil shield
and my bouffant buffer,
born again into medieval revelery
and a lipstick smeared sitcom.