With knives he carves my woman’s flesh
into new peaks and valleys, cuts
out the center of rebellion,
that audacity of dysfunction,
tying me together with twine like
a human bridge suspended over the
chasm of ends and beginnings.
My body hangs swinging gently
from strings like a puppet.
“Two weeks, ” he says, “come back
and you will be healed.” Healed?
No. I will be born again into myself,
strings cut, escaped in disguise,
a duplicate of a remembered original.
The notion of 'cut and be healed' has to be a surgical non-sequitur; perhaps the easy answer to rebirth. Restrained depiction Val, depth and expression muted but powerful. Love it! Regards, Ivan
This poem has not been translated into any other language yet.
I would like to translate this poem
Thought provoking, with interesting imagery. I found the picture of the body being trussed up with twine particularly vivid. Like this one a lot.