In
the way that I turn
A
turtleneck
Outside-in
She
is born in a casket and
Scuttles
to
The
nearest curb to
Nurse
from the dirt-blushed remnants of
Snow
that sticks to the
Heels
of a winter
Sprinting.
And
she raises a naked
Finger
to probe her scalp for her
First,
singular hair
To
pluck.
It
is green.
She
starts her first day of
Middle
School with a face coated
In
concrete pimples as
Erect
as skyscrapers
And
she is slammed into
Lockers
and eats in the cafeteria with
Five people sitting
on her lap.
She
marries and effortlessly
Spits
out a multitude of children all of which
She
is in love with.
Menopause
tickles her, taunting,
Then
envelopes her in burning
Wire
and she is glossy
With
a sheen of sweat and dazzling with
Skin
that might be described as luminous.
Followed
by a fraction.
Her
hair is turning orange and
It
begins to fall out as she walks
Down
a city street, leaving a rug that
I
tread upon with every step to the Party Store.
Beneath
my boots it crunches like a crisp
Plastic
bag.
I
trail behind her and casually toss a
Cigarette
butt onto her tongue.
Followed
by a fraction.
And
it is Christmas dinner and
She
has forgotten the name of her
Eldest
daughter.
Followed by a
fraction
And
she eases into a seasoned armchair
In
the nursing home.
Followed
by a fraction
And
she slowly settles into her coffin
At
her wake just as
Two
acquaintances approach.
“She
looks so peaceful.”
She
Thinks
“You are right, and
You
are wrong,
Shrew.”
“So
peaceful” echoes the
Second
chalice
Scanning
the shell before her
With
sightless eyes,
Noting
the silk she
Is
wrapped in, shielding them from the
Potholes
on her abdomen.
The
snow is falling outside.
Followed
by a fraction.
“So
peaceful.” A stream of neutral
Remarks
as spectators place
A
hand on hers which
Is
intertwined with her other,
Gently
poised above
Her crotch.
They
do not notice as they unlace
And
they meticulously,
Digitally
scratch at her groin.
No
one
Notices
as she reaches an elongated arm and
Fishes
into that sacred slit
Up
to her elbow.
Followed
by a fraction
And
up to her shoulder.
A
gentle tug and like
A
limp air mattress her crown
Inverts
into
Itself.
A crocus yelps outside
As
a doctor swats its buttock
And
with the swiftness of wet towels
Being
snapped by idiotic adolescent
Boys
nearly nude
She
yanks from further than
Her
womb and her talons
Drag
out of her
The
extraterrestrial head of a newborn of
Herself.
She
is doughy and
Sits
in the casket and
Stares
through the clear pane,
Blows
a kiss to her celestial brethren, and
Thinks:
“What
trench coat will I wear today?
Which god will be blamed for my hurricane?”
-BENJAMIN SMITH
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