Nearly decorative now, these 19 years since.
This spectacle of extraction before the scar settled like a necklace, as in lace around the neck. Contusion visible beneath the surface like a constant flush. Healing begins with a dark perforation, then a lighter version of the same. I have trouble imagining the biohazard bag, distrust instinctively the phrase disposed of. This was my first organ lifted out-though not my last. "I've been doing this a long time." How was I suddenly the one who wanted numbers when words have been my lifeblood all these years? And there's the blood again, seeping into my language as under the surrounding skin. Isn't an elegant laceration always an oxymoron? I asked the surgeon how many organs he had removed. " the physician swears with right hand raised, yet the promise is impossible. Forceps to either side perhaps, like door jambs. Do intentions define a wound, make it more or less wounded? Too expert to be gash, too calculated to be slash, so we call it surgical-the slit of great precision, the body made to open on command. Shades of insect? Shades of bat? Shades of the Mothman, feminized? How is she shouting without a mouth? How does she caramelize sugar into fright? Why am I no longer hungry?Īn incision has been made. A headless woman with hands like pincers raised. Is that syrup splattered to the sides of her-sticky puddles caricatured? comment on the mess a sweetness often makes? When my eyes travel to where her head should be, there's only the collar, it seems. Butterworth, she will not break, but she will also not break down. Now they're plastic, like everything else. I'd know a woman's body anywhere, I think, this one curvy as the glass bottles of syrup we passed by at the store in favor of something bulky and generic. The buckle stands out-an opal perhaps, or a moonstone? And surely that's an apron she's wearing, the darker brown partially concealing the bottom half of her dress. Butterworth? I see a woman standing upright, ankles touching, a bell-shaped skirt cinched at the waist with brown belt and white buckle. Butterworth because I'm hungry, or am I hungry because she's Mrs.
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