When thumbs pressed and prodded

At the soft hollow flesh of my neck

And metal instruments with talon tips

Reached down my throat to unwrap

The folds of my larynx

In search of severed pieces

I waited in mute contempt

Soundlessly patient I was under their observation

Though I yearned to tell them

That I was not ruined

Flawed or fractured

The grand-maker had not failed

When he had laced the silvery cords of my neck

Or filled the gelatinous organ in my skull with knowledge and thought

What they failed to see was that

The questions to be answered were never

What was broken?

What was damaged?

What was wrong?

The question, it seemed, would always remain: cannot, or will not?