The Plagiarist Speaks

I could cut open her
throat and extract the moon
set there among the spit
and thirsts -- I could
eat it like a hard-cooked
chicken heart -- I could open
her slit and remove
the delicate precision with which
she describes the medical
procedures performed on her
now-dead husband --
I could put my fingers
in her mouth and fondle
the teeth and gums looking
for something to say --
I might be acid etching
out the cries of abuse
oh mother oh sister oh
betraying father -- I got
this life from you and seem to have
eyes held like eggs in water. So
what do I know? Only
what I hear from others
described to me and if
not described, then given up to me
as I inhale the smoky words -- no,
not inhale... I take words out like the first
thing I mentioned here
with a blade and the blood
is both sticky and slippery.

published in Parting Gifts (Summer 2007)

Copyright Louise Robertson