On the days I will see a dead body, I cover my mirrors with silk scarves.
The mirrors lie to me; they tell me that I have a body with scars and organs and smells.
The mirrors tell me that I am him.
I am not him. I am not a body.
I could not be cut from notch to navel, skin shorn from fascia
with ragged cuts and fingers sliding, slipping, searching for grip
to rip my breast from my ribs.
I am red. I am anxious and furious and crude.
I am consciousness that cannot be sewn to lifeform
Nor snipped from flesh.
But when I cut into his wrist and palm, up to his fingertips
I find emotions there; tingling and calloused,
His anxiety, released from his bones, caresses my hand,
Calling, like to like.
My scalpel falls from my fingers.
It embeds in my foot.
I scream, slap his fileted hand away from my hand.
If I felt less, I’d pick up my scalpel and saw through my wrists.
But he has awakened my nerves;
They sprout, roots from skin.
So I scrub, scrub, scrub with harsh soap
Disinfecting him from me
But he remains
And I return to my body, the body I denied–
I remove the scarves from my mirrors.
Art by Grace Wu, MS4
