What are we made of who made ourselves? Our hands pull at the stitches like petals "love me, love me not" until our lovable monster lies 5 undone and red and ruined as a pile of raw scarves. Quick, quick, take these flicked cracks, the ones under the brows and by the eyes, or the one jaggedy one as long as a sigh 10 long and nipple-purple by the targeted heart and pinch it and knit it and tie a tight knot, knowing that the guts have already gone out of it, the heaving mongrel mess the contusions and bruises 15 and god knows what that make us human and helpless and work. Where our kisses have stung a rosary of burns remains; What had happened back when the lightning struck 20 and love arose? What surged and gurgled on the steel table? What awoke with a shock to see the operating room's sugary whites, the corners as sharp as a smirk? What shuddered and blinked 25 at the rubber and tubular helper hands so anxious to gag it and glue it, to take it to us and keep us together like a heap of busted toys in a box? The surgical light as intense as a sty 30 blinked on above us like a faulty halo. Notice the choosing of the bones, the supple back, the wavery feet, the bland big bone of the face, blank as a lollipop. Notice the choosing of the bones, 35 very important and very proper, stark popsickle sticks stuck in two frozen lives, rounds and mounds to hang ourselves on, display our guts like sausages and our smiles like carved lard.
From the collection "The Soft Assault"
Written by Gregg Glory [Gregg G. Brown]
More information available on gregglory.com.