Self-Surgery

Alejandro Villa Vasquez

In the chamber,

of blood and meat.

A membrane.

A lining of tenderness: mine,

his.

It whispers that I lust him.

It murmurs putridly, it murmurs of love.

It tells me he does not tell, tell, tell of me.

What’s behind the flesh curtain—a heart.

I confess before my beige ancestresses,

this pomegranate has a streak of sallow sebum.

Blond, belly fat coagulating in the aorta.

But then come promises of a future,

as big as he makes me:

luminescence of the arches, towers to the north, all ours.

In the air of war,

the promise of mutual destruction.

“My warhead is bigger.”

How we slip on sweat and spit toward ruination.

My guts and bolts, nuts and your socks soaked.

 

Hear me sister, sisters:

I denounce this heart of lard.

I reach into my sick gizzard.

Find that witching zipper.

Disinter the devilish thorn.

 

There,

to the end of the world you made for us.

I

washed away this white swath.

I have been sequestered as a refugee,

freed finally.

This lewd sinew supplanted,

reconstruction begins.

Stitching the torn.

I convalesce in beige,

in a brown blanket,

tiger fur and floral.

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