Here You Are Again

by Eva Glassman


With the scalpel and a smile. 
Tell me again how to live
and why it is not the way
I am living, how
movies are real and the bodies 
inside them, the bodies
with all their poreless
fucking—slim and sculpted
granules of nothing. 

I live kindly, nimbly, ever-undoing
knots in my delicate chain 
of blunders so that it may rest, 
finally, at my heart. I live to make
new holes in the body—pierced,
studded, healing—to remind you 
that we are always one wound away
from obliteration, a splattering 
of blood on sheer, linen curtains 
in the wind of a crime scene, 
front door swinging. I live to eat
and be eaten.

I listen to you so I know 
what not to tell my children. 
Instead, I will tell them 
of a full-fledged loving, 
the kind that’s wet
and blights the bitter 
stems of doubt, the full 
plate at the table—the blunt 
weapon I hurl back at you. 
I will tell them of a rebellion so soft,
so swift, so precise—one that you will only
recognize as it threatens inside you
a real opening. 


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