Silence is a cleft through the belly button.
There’s always a cesarean section.
The baby is too big. It won’t slip out.
The chainsaw has drifted too deep.
There’s a little girl in afterschool tutoring.
Long division clicking into place.
What is a suture?
What is anything tied together with a bow?
They walked me behind the paper sheet,
their arms linked in mine.
I feared letting loose.
They set me on stage,
they let my top half
slide off the bottom
like a funhouse mirror.
The large intestine swims in a grasp,
the bladder is cupped with another hand.
I thought I was one thing.
I turned out another: tadpole division,
cells splitting in two and sprouting tails.
I’m the main picture
sliced down the center,
the scream queen, the creature feature,
the silent film star brought back for a close-up,
not closure, just bits of popcorn
floating through me.
I’m in an era of health and wellness.
I’m in an era of phantom pain.
I’m giving no mind
to the dragging of legs behind me,
to the dull thuds against the changes in level,
to checking my kitten heels
haven’t clunked off.