John Grey
Whole Again
Times have changed.
Knives and scissors have found other uses.
And I haven’t gone full revenant in a while.
At least, not since the last time
an ear went missing.
It ended up packed neatly in a box,
addressed to someone who sure was surprised
to receive such a missive.
It came back “return to sender.”
It’s been ages since I tore out my own tongue
just to stop the whispers that weren’t mine anyhow.
A needle, some thread, a mirror –
and now it’s back flapping in my jaw.
The fact is the mutilations are behind me now.
No more self-carvings.
Everything has been reattached,
stitched with trembling hands
by someone who figured he needed them after all.
Even my lips are back where they belong.
They still twitch from time to time.
I don’t blame them.
They have bad memories of other mouths.
I’ve been whole for what feels like centuries.
In fact, it has been centuries.
I’m lonely, yes, but fully intact.
Every piece is accounted for.
Every part behaves as per “Gray’s Anatomy”.
I reclaimed the appendix
from the stranger who borrowed it.
I dug the lungs out of the trash heap
where I’d abandoned them.
My heart is a different story.
It’s been stolen. It’s been traded.
It’s been kicked out windows,
dropped down open drains, squashed underfoot.
I tracked it down in the backstreets after dark,
wrenched it from hands of some woman
who said she was glad to be rid of it.
It’s locked away somewhere safe now.
It won’t escape again.
And it beats at the required rate
as though nothing even happened.
You might wonder how I managed
to go heartless for such a long time.
Truth is, my mind took over its duties.
And coldly. And efficiently.
I would have given that away too.
But for years I wasn’t aware that I had one.
Knives and scissors have found other uses.
And I haven’t gone full revenant in a while.
At least, not since the last time
an ear went missing.
It ended up packed neatly in a box,
addressed to someone who sure was surprised
to receive such a missive.
It came back “return to sender.”
It’s been ages since I tore out my own tongue
just to stop the whispers that weren’t mine anyhow.
A needle, some thread, a mirror –
and now it’s back flapping in my jaw.
The fact is the mutilations are behind me now.
No more self-carvings.
Everything has been reattached,
stitched with trembling hands
by someone who figured he needed them after all.
Even my lips are back where they belong.
They still twitch from time to time.
I don’t blame them.
They have bad memories of other mouths.
I’ve been whole for what feels like centuries.
In fact, it has been centuries.
I’m lonely, yes, but fully intact.
Every piece is accounted for.
Every part behaves as per “Gray’s Anatomy”.
I reclaimed the appendix
from the stranger who borrowed it.
I dug the lungs out of the trash heap
where I’d abandoned them.
My heart is a different story.
It’s been stolen. It’s been traded.
It’s been kicked out windows,
dropped down open drains, squashed underfoot.
I tracked it down in the backstreets after dark,
wrenched it from hands of some woman
who said she was glad to be rid of it.
It’s locked away somewhere safe now.
It won’t escape again.
And it beats at the required rate
as though nothing even happened.
You might wonder how I managed
to go heartless for such a long time.
Truth is, my mind took over its duties.
And coldly. And efficiently.
I would have given that away too.
But for years I wasn’t aware that I had one.
John Grey is an Australian poet, US resident, recently published in Midnight Mind, Willow Review and White Wall Review. Latest books, Bittersweet, Subject Matters, and Between Two Fires are available through Amazon. Work upcoming in the MacGuffin, Touchstone, and Willow Review.
