December 2012 - Comments Off

Bodies of Other

Hannah Kucharzak '13

Mid-air, the fishing line runs forward at a perfect
parabola, marking the distance of the unstable relationship
of three-- sky, water, child. The lure is a fish head. My father
makes me cut a goby in quarters because I wasn’t supposed to
catch it; its brain is small but is important enough to fall out
and the void is where I hook it. Goby eyes for breakfast.
The fish’s sex lies wriggling on the dock, a dark castration,
a microscopic procedure, the booger removed that begins
the surprising steady red bloodflow. I’m aware that I need to cut
this fish to become a woman, anxiously awaiting the day
I wake up with serendipitous boobs. I see my body flung
into the water, cracked like a too-rich vase upon impact,
I see it break into segments: nibble on a piece of this,
my kneecap, something sinister, my newfound secret
of masturbation. If my eyeballs fell through my esophagus,
glazed donutholes, how long until I get skullfucked
at the bottom by eels, narrated by David Attenborough?
Would all that remain be my archaic torso? Could I still
gaze at scuba divers with my nipples? A death for science,
a pre-pubescent mermaid, of which there are none, lying
in a bed of lettuce and fish shit, a wish-you-were-here
postcard. It’s hard to feel guilt when a knife creates
fireworks, when a father says it’s what’s right. Scar tissue
is the toughest part to eat on account of all its tough white
history. At night we bellow in the stomachs of monsters,
goby and girl, a perfect discord of smut and release.

Published by: in Poetry, Volume 69: Issue 1

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