Memorys rot, a souls deep yearning from behind glass, confronts decaying patriarchal structures, forging resilient words within the bodys fragile, failing anchors.
“I say through glass. I smell blood,
someone else’e— her husband’s—who’s down in the mouth, but lets nurse
lean her needle in. I’m told its inflow will make her strong, fuse the
anchors she’s thrown into one. Since we no longer get her drift, please,
god of healing, don’t dilly-dally nor click in boredom your tongue.
Throw your weight on that anchor and make it stick.”
“Don’t put it on me again, this weave of cotton that set me aflame,
this hospital gown. Attached by frail-winged thongs to a pit in my
stomach, my strands of muscle may soon come apart, expose me as carrion
gone rotten. We’ve been set up, put upon by a new breed of spinners, of
quacks with their chakras, their mumbos, their jumbos. Fresh whacks of
misfortune assail me, doctor, Leave me out of it, dear, out of it all
and this hospital gown”
“Like a boat pulled ashore our plants malnourished, this hospital
cures. From time to time on tides that wobble it just before dawn, her
head fills with water remembered, its flow, its feed. Alive with rot,
rich with bacteria, from it her good words rise.”
” Its multiple anchors drop but do not hold. She
says her body tells her they’ll take their time, they always do, but who
wants to know?
