Myth of Arrival

As I have told everyone who will listen it is midterm-time and I have spending far too much time attempting to memorize bizarre medical terms (and 90% of them are diseases and terrible things that can go wrong with the human body) under the guise that occupational therapists do nothing more than dealing with these sorts of things on a daily basis. I have been up since 3:30 this morning trying to memorize chapter 11, the digestive system. We are required to know terms like, "esophagogastroduodenoscopy," which is a, "visual examination of the esophagus, stomach and duodenum." Great. And now it is 9 a.m. and I must go shave and shower and get ready for my other test, anatomy, which will all be about the lymph system. I use to really enjoy the human body at one time. *sigh*

The downside of spending your time reading nothing but odd and painful sounding ways the body can give out on you is that I have been thinking of nothing else all weekend. This poem is not, I assure you, autobiographical. But for anyone reads it I just wanted you to know where the source material came from. Enjoy.

With nail and foot. With wrist and vein. With knife.
With a knife. Tonguing strife. With aplomb watch
me blow. As in shots. As in out. Blood-life
clots. As in the stain on my name. The blotch
growing behind my skin. Blotch. Take my nail.
Take my foot. I don't need them now. Take my
veins. They are all I have to give. Exhale
my tongue. Spit out my knife. What does the sky
need to know? I have odd secrets but none
that please me. What a drag; the sky is not
my friend this morning. What a drag. Urine
in my blood. Tissue tearing. One more clot
at the heart of the matter. And this brain
shudders again and again and again.

There is salt on my lips. I love that salt.
I am in love with all far-seen places.
All that rooted — red woods, sea beds, asphalt,
teeth — makes me happy. All the past, pieces
no one can recall, fascinates me. Why?
Why would we look back? Our love and hatred
all lost, a root pulled free, a flowing sky
going nowhere. Because nothing rooted
lasts and we love to root. I love the past
tense and its lies that says we have survived.
I love that you still think your memory
is your own. Kiss this salt off. What can last
beyond now? Nothing. Kiss me here. Deprived
of past. Rootless child, odd skylark. Kiss me.

The things we robbed from each other. The things we stole. Where do we go? We ruined boys without a home, a voice, a guide? In the movie, Farinelli, the famous castrato, il ragazzo ("the boy"), delights the world with his soprano voice; and yet we find the rivalry between himself and the composer George Frideric Handel threatens to destroy them both. I have no Handel to demand secrets from me; just fear. The fears we all suffer. The fears that will drive us forward. The fears that will be our undoing.

There are no metaphors, yet simple things
madden us. Farinelli's pound of flesh,
a boy soprano, castrati who sings,
little starling, means nothing. This flesh, fresh
from the cutting board, cannot be trusted.
I have corrupted this ruined body;
tear out my cursed voice. I have corrupted
the voice, too; tear at my body. Mercy.
There shall be no mercy. No. It is all
about blood returning home with what you
once called a need. Frenzied greed. That last small
emotion. The last small everything. Who
would take you now, boy-waste? No one. Nothing
wants such a maimed, lamed bird that cannot sing.

Not yet. Not yet. Not this waking; that world
or this – they are the same. And yet. And yet.
Not this blessing, yet. This blessing; the curled
lip, the spiked dog collar, the ripped fishnet
stockings. No. My body is not my own.
Not yet. And yet? No sorrow? no regret?
no rage? Not yet. I fret. With each low moan
you pry from me, with each passing sunset,
passing moon rise, passing time, I sweat. You
praised the honey bee, sweet coffee, milkweed.
Anyone can praise bees. Praise my tattoo,
my junk sickness, my greed. Yes. Praise my greed.
I need all this, and yet. I need all this.
And yet. What you call greed and I call bliss.