I’ll tell you the truth
that no one else will:
the thing itself
did not hurt as much
as the reality of not being
believed.
No ache compared.
No crucifixion was ever good
enough. They nailed my wrists
to any structure they could find,
Liar, liar, you will never know.
I will never know
their pain, I know nothing
of my own.
I know broken glass streaming
down the sciatic nerve,
feeling my heartbeat
between my teeth. Can you?
Stick your finger in my mouth
if you think it would prove
anything. Ignore the tears
should they touch your hand.
Gag me. Pry my mouth open,
say ah. Go ahead,
all the doctors have.
Press here: the space between
ignore the screaming.
Do not catch me when I pass
out.
If my body were a temple after
all, would you love it?
Would you pull my hair
out of my face during the fever?
So even then
if my body were holy,
you would not love it.
How could anyone
touch a kneecap tenderly?
I have hidden in
every hospital gown.
My body crumbling, in the squatted
position. Hold the world
above my head, while my mouth
cracks open.
Surgical scars,
fire lines on the inside to
stop the controlled burn. There will never
be another bathing suit.
Not enough silverware
in my kitchen drawers. No child
will ever grace my womb. My children
were never mine. They were the ghosts
I visited with when
under anesthesia. Their faces
look like the other side
of closed eyes.
You will never
know. Even if I wanted it
I would never have it. It matters
not to anyone but me. This loss
I found. Ten fingers, ten toes,
a head full of hair
LYDIA A. CYRUS is a writer and activist living in Indiana. Some say she rides a broom stick, she says that’s hearsay. She loves a good thunder storm and poetry.