body work

ix: in which the coroner finds a bird in the chest cavity

**tw's: death mentioned, body talk, abuse implied**

many times, i was death itself,
twice in june alone—
for months on end, i laid in beds,
claiming nobody but my
own bloodied self. i had no

scythe to let fall, no looming
presence, no ominous call.
i just clenched a fist—&
became too small—
lungs then hard to inflate—i'd
close these eyes to regenerate—then
lose my mind as it began again.

& still, i learnt nothing new about decay—
it starts with weakness & ends with my face.
each time, this is always the same.

& still, the heart thrashes around wildly,
as if its dwelling is a prison—itself, an inmate—with some innate
desire to tunnel out
of the ribcage.
just a little bird, wanting to brush
its wings against the air—
to enjoy its purpose of creation,
before looping back, larger
& with more love to share—

not to beat as if exacting revenge—on what or whom if not itself? just a bird with a broken beak
& severed wings,
no way to enjoy
the song it sings—

isn't that the real tragedy?
that the cage is not as cruel when
it's your only abode—
when licking love off knives is
all that you know—you take without complaint & ravage for more. praise
the lord as your body hits the floor.

i feel it, i hear it & can do nothing more. i was born
translucent, around the time the sky
envelops the moon—so little—&
with the same feather-stuffed drum inside of me,
i was left in a room

to grow strong. father had prophesied my death (& by now, many a time). he still waits for the day he is right.
mother didn't hold me until the third day. to grow strong,

they left the radio on so i could recognise voices. i was born with a death certificate signed, the day i went home, it's a midwife holding me tight

in the picture. i never liked being held & now it's too late.
i slept downstairs,
with someone there, to
clean the milky regurgitate
that soured the air &
the adults could make fists &
i would still fit in their hold—a grenade in those hands that were
ready for war of their own—

& when that came, for a while, my father made sure it didn't hurt too much—just for me & when we stood in line,

i used to pretend to get tired so my mother would send me to sleep,
her warnings a lullaby. that instead facing the battle, i would wage the war.

& i was just out there, picking worms
& being praised for keeping clean—
& not really aware until 11 years of age
& finding all these ways to remain unseen. our qur'an

teacher laughed when i drew houses underneath the birds
dropping stones over the battle scene, this childhood innocence, so tender & sweet.
but is this really not how
things are? when in war, you're
praised for each body torn apart—
so smash those windows, take over those homes—
collect those bodies to save your own.

purity is to be delivered into a battle cry, then to rush to choke
out the death rattle—all
love is just rage, simplified.
each declaration a call to battle,
a chance to be reborn as fresh as sin—
to be that tiny little bird with see-through skin.

& you were just all limbs & voices
& lost in the theatrics of someone to adore—
& pulling out bones when they start to itch
& wailing until these feathers hit the floor.

& i am somewhere there too—soundless & flightless & too
late for the eulogy. still unsure of
where the body ends & the fight starts—

perhaps, this is why
my body is always tense, the muscles
ready for the attack.
& then when i was 18, god just
decided to keep them like that—

i have to force them to relax & more
often than not, i am ice cold
as if i am both the rigid cadaver & the slab in the freezer,
motionless, & so ready to devour the carving knife—
there are vultures circling, but looking like people—arms splayed out wide,
as if sorrow has a wingspan—
i know then that this
should not take too long—
eyes wide, i make a fist
& it sounds like birdsong.