Monster Talk
Chirality
scalelike
[1] The phrase “how I am more than a casualty,” is in direct conversation with the quote, “I am not only a casualty,” from Audre Lorde’s “The Transformation of Silence into Language and Action,” from Sister Outsider.
[2] The phrase “a razor white background” is in direct conversation with the quote “a sharp white background” from Claudia Rankine’s, Citizen: An American Lyric.
Meditations on Lines
Water takes the path of least resistance. Any competent plumber spouts this tried & true logic. Water disobeys. Water wants what water wants. Water claims & claims. If you live in the desert long enough, you become watchful of water. Water makes up 83% of lungs; 74% of brain & heart. Tuning fork of organs. Protective. Even, our watery bones. You meet the saguaro & touch your clavicle in kindship. What you can lug around. How roots tendril inside a body. You wonder how long before the spikes & spindles evolve you.
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Before I was a cell, I was a whisper of a cell from another cell. A longing.
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Our fingers between the chain-linked fence. Our silhouettes cast into pool before our bodies. Water glistens mercury in moonlight. Our skinny limbs under layers peeling onto cement. Under the diving board, you enter me, up to knuckles. My frame squirms in the chlorine. You bring your finger to your nose. “You don’t smell like a dirty taco.” & I see muscles constrict along your shoulder blades, your frame pulls out of the wet.
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Count 499 seconds: the time for light to leave the sun & hit earth. About eight minutes. We label this number, one; one Astronomical Unit. We define. & from our definitions, causality in abundance. The psychologist duo Dr. Susan Fiske & Dr. Shelley Taylor coined us cognitive misers. Our brain tendrils & pathways not unlike water, in search of facile, of ease. Why scale the redwood when the stream carries our bulbous bodies in gentle sway?
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Nothing about the human body suggests effortlessness.
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After the plumber augers the main sewer line, he stands on the basement steps & says, “You seem like clean people,” & continues his story about a slum lord who, “had 15 Latinos living in a basement knee-deep in feces.” He groans a chuckle. My organs flinch & my cells swell. My ears fill; I’m fifteen again under water, lungs in burn & his voice muffles away as I sink further below surface.
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Perhaps Fiske & Taylor got it wrong; the body made to act in, suggesting environment & in turn, be acted upon, suggesting relationship. We define to feel whole. We define to use the tongue & teeth & mandible & epiglottis to construct home in a language full of gaps; a language that, at times, despises us. Lungs & throat & air swirl & a voice emerges. Amiri Baraka said, “Context…is most dramatically social.”[1] Our definitions fail in the linear. Think of the zigzags, the rounded curves of any context filtered through veils of haze in our hippocampus. Did we forgot the circulatory systems of veins, arteries, vessels, & nerves twisting inside of us?
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Maggots collect in a tiny inlet of plastic filled with water after 22 hours of rain. Half of the cream, cylindrical bodies float, still. The other half writhe & circle the dead. If design exists here, Frost, what horrid spell cast.
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Light bends by itself. In 94.36 million miles, the sun’s rays reach our pupils. Any physics textbook tells us light travels in a straight line. Yet, we now know light bends by itself. Light travels in curves without external influence.
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Our walking circuitous solar systems under flesh.
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A lesson in windows. Corneas hold the power of refraction; the cornea bends rays through the pupil to enter us. The face: a camera & our irises: shutters. Collection built in our compositions. Ciliary muscles mold the lens’ shape, bend here flatten there, to focus light & images on the retina. The rods & cones of us in photoreceptive cells. How a definition bends to desired shape. Fenestrae in the brain, in the lungs, the throat. Open the transom. Breathe.
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Women develop complete sets of cells. I develop from ovum living inside my mother’s ovary while inside my grandma’s womb. I begin immature cell from immature ovum inside a womb. I am a woman of a woman of a woman. Interior ghost in haunt.
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You take me to the edge of nothing. No longer palimpsest for your butchery. I wring my shins & torso & spine & forearm; collect my own fluids. Drink.
[1] From Amiri Baraka’s essay, “Expressive Language” found at Poetry Foundation online