Our earliest understanding of seizures
was that they must be the devil
possessing the sick.
▼
At the onset of my condition,
the doctors were convinced it must be
epilepsy. Kept me
for a week. Bedridden & wired
to their machines.
▼
“Epilepsy” from the Greek
epi—upon &
lambanein—to take hold.
The body snatched away
from itself.
▼
My first seizure was not like this
instead, voltage in my blood,
my body draped in wind,
in wings, in nets, & veils
of heatless light.
▼
Sometimes, I think I must be
a bad feminist. The days that
all I want to be is owned.
An object. A possession.
▼
An apostrophe denotes possession.
Means to turn toward. Thin hook
of ink that joins one body to another
by its name. Small black latch
that clicks the distance between
two things shut.
▼
Most days,
my pink leather collar
collects dust in a closet.
Though once, I wore it daily.
Marked territory’s familiar
weight. Though, once,
a dom made me wear it out
in a dive bar’s dim light
to read poems for tips
& I bruised my throat
from the force of speaking.
▼
For weeks after, my voice
was choked
with ghost-palms, padlock
caught in my throat.
▼
Once, the common practice
for treating patients
in the midst of seizing
was to force a piece of wood
between their teeth
to prevent them from biting
through their tongues.
▼
Epilepsy shares a common root
with latch. Thus, the lock, & band,
the collar, & cuffs, & trapdoor
of a mouth—cousins to illness.
▼
The doctor tells me this is Not epilepsy
but a cousin-illness. Misfiring nervous
system shocked & baring teeth.
▼
Certain kinds of seizure are categorized
by the feeling of euphoria that overtakes the body
when you return to it. I first knew to call
these seizures from the dead-light they left behind.
▼
My lover tells me they have heard the voice of god
since before they understood human speech
& this is how I know we are thunder
-blooded in the same way.
▼
The seizure—a kind
of theft. Speech stolen
from the tip of my tongue. I wake
from sudden darkness & words
topple
from my mouth, unhinged
from their tangled meanings.
Back against the floor, my tongue
babels a tower skyward.
▼
Sometimes I hear voices
in the darkness. Sometimes
I hear my love, reaching
for me as if through water,
even from 1000 miles away.
▼
The same lover told me that the distance between
orgasm & seizure is thin
as a split lip’s skin.
The body overtaken by itself. But
there’s something different in being trembled
by another’s hand.
▼
Their hand: a hook & a name.
▼
Possession—a mark of sin.
Of course.
An invitation. I give myself
over & this must be a deviled thing.
A dirty prayer. If a nun has wed
the lord, pray tell
what strange marriage is this?
▼
To be bridled is to be held,
but contains within it bride,
could be confused for bridal.
They hold me through a seizure
or pin me to the bed, fingers
a bit inside my mouth. I am wed
to their hands.
Originally published in Ninth Letter. Copyright © 2021 by torrin a. greathouse. Used with the permission of the author.