The Body Fable

A girl comes to our sterile cell bearing

nameless snakes on the muscle of an arm,

the rise of her ankle. A jewel blooms

in her navel. When we see the red flush

of her tattooed heart we all want to

touch it. Want to ruffle the plume of

purple that flowers above one breast.

She needs us, surgery, a plucking

of her torment. The surgeon toils

in a small wound avoiding a crown

of blackberry thorns. What light did she

lie beneath for a pen to green this vine

across her hip? We are lured, lost

in the feathered uncurlings of her leaves.

I remember when 'Desire me'

was a weedy plague I hid within me.

Unfurled, invisible. I looked for

my reflection in every face on the

street. What could they see?

My fingers flutter above gold rings

piercing this girl's eyebrows. I look

into pinpoint pupils. She ticks in darkness

in the garden of her body.

By Kelly Sievers, CRNA