Lies to Tell the Body
I became the opposite of orgasm,
breathing with the cyst
nestled in my left ovary, where the pelvic
bone juts up to meet
skin and socket. I tongued demands,
a steel countertop parallel
to my spine, while doctors insisted I could
conduct animal electricity.
A spark would jolt my limbs
to swagger off
the table, proof of something alive
inside my muscle.
Could I keep the yolk whole, a tiny
fluid-filled sac that if it bursts,
it bursts? It would have been a relief
to lose a little more. You could stand to lose
more, he told me. Weighing pears, he estimated
how much I would need, suggesting
serving sizes, his perfect portions.
My uneaten bite,
my refusal to measure. I left one
curled arugula leaf or crusts
from toast. The year of almost. The year
of maybe. Men moved
their unsteady chins up and down.
They told me, if only,
my body a tragedy. If I burst,
I burst, no more hurt than
the sharp pinch from a man bumbling
across my feet. I watched
my tropical fish die from fin rot. The tetras
went first. My blue
gourami the last, half floating, half swimming
on the water’s scummy edge.
Two red drops and two yellow drops to stop
the infection. It still
spread. I was never at home. I combed every aisle
of the grocery store, my nails
digging in for miracles. I harvested
tomatoes, chard, green beans.
I was not a morning person.
I was not a night
person. I was a midday creature that slept
opposite of any man.
I stayed awake longer. After that year, I grew
all muscle and sinew:
my husband looked at me like a panther. He cut
my haunches on his teeth,
pressing the mechanism inside my pelvic floor—
reincarnate, reincarnate.
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