here's another one of zola's brilliant compositions inspired
by my big-ass scar. i swear, this girl's talent in finding
inspiration in the trivialities of my insipid half-life
-my so-called mini-tragedies- is almost as inspired as her
poetic prowess. (inspired?! prowess?! --
sorry zo, im only trying to sound literati-ish... haha.
but you do know i am in awe of your talent!:))
They cut you open on the operating table
(for Mara and 500 cc’s of pus and blood)
After much thought
and matchless conviction,
they wheeled you in for the butcher.
Pain is a rock in the gut-
flat, black, and igneous,
swimming in the pit of your thorax;
the metal bed, a planet with four moons
put up low and suspicious,
blatant over your body
split two-ways under the glint of knives.
Bleakly, wake stood waving
from the edge of the dock
at the pier where you set off
to seek worthy finds-
perhaps a heart-
that dropped from a rib,
a panel sliding wetly open
the ashes from the cash
at the tips of harried hands;
the solid smell of soap
and shit lingering like a bad memory
of musty motels and men’s rooms;
the sordid aftertaste
of a kiss that landed in another’s mouth.
They sewed you shut,
the stitches neat, surgical,
your middle, like a drum to thump
the room to silence.
These specters in white,
they hover above their handiwork,
soldiers trooping over your carcass,
they hold your guts up against the light,
(housewives shopping for jams in a grocery aisle.)
Under the sheets, your body,
in open tomb in a full cemetery.