Academic journal article Women's Studies Quarterly

Autobiography with God Complex and Epidemic

Academic journal article Women's Studies Quarterly

Autobiography with God Complex and Epidemic

Article excerpt

I have always been a statue, my absence

of gestures just right, my eyes too clean,

my knees oiled, all parts of me draped.

The corridors of me whisper with chains. I try

to make a language from the splendid voids of rain.

I try to be nourished by what has been inedible.

Then I starve. I am shocked by the begging bowls

present in my hands. I pass through ghosts

of my own gone self. The little winds

that are its pulse. The little innards that

keep it hot. The jolt of it is near enough.

The art of it is tapered shut.

My image thins and cracks like the high notes

of a choir. The most outward parts of me

fix and flex. Neat sutures border this:

a kiss of whim, a stitch of thistle, a lick

of phobias. A fidget of shivers winds its way

in. My mind is a lamplight for silence.

My heart fashioned of artificial ash, my heart

a divan of shadows. …

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