My friend says she comes from a line of people who are always trying
to make sure their backs are covered. By which she doesn't mean
covered with a raincoat or cardigan or a dinner jacket. I understand
what she's saying, for I come from a line of people who are always
looking over their shoulder to make sure no one is about to drive
a blade in the semilunar space made by the lower curve of the left lung,
the front edge of the spleen, and the arch formed by sinews of the false
ribs. We are always preparing for the expected unexpected, always
reminding ourselves not to give everything away, not to think we
are ever home free or no longer under brilliant surveillance. Of course
we want to be loved, to be given the same options to choose from
just like others. To be able to speak of excitements and amazements
without being mistaken for hysterics or heathens. Once, at a show,
we caught a glimpse of magicians stuffing their elbow-patched sleeves
with squares of knotted silk. Nevertheless, we roared with applause
from our seats in the audience as they pulled out color after color,
ending with the flourish of a living bird.
Who are we to point
out the false logic, the trick, against
the cruelty of sawing a body in half?
Purveyors of fine poetry since 2003.
