A Session of Dissection
A poem loosely based on a dream that I had which I imbued with the meaning of rediscovering happiness.
“A Session of Dissection” A humanoid creature with a butcher’s knife appears in the mirror Inside of the public bathroom where I stand in front of the sink, Fingers on my face in an attempt to perform a session of dissection While looking through my reflection on a smudge-stained glass. Through the pressure I place upon the acne of my porous skin, Maybe I can confront the rot rooted deep inside of myself By pushing it out from within, by seeing it within my blood and puss. But I get sick at the sight of whatever lies inside, That is what that creature sees in my visible strain, My sweat-stained face, my fingers with the jitters and shakes, So the creature holds out that butcher’s knife in my face And asks if it can be my scientist and I can be its cadaver. So I sit upon that bacteria-ridden bathroom floor As the creature slits my skin and slices the top of my head To reach my brain, to reach my cranium, to reach my fear. And after the creature makes the final cut, I stand up and see in the glass, that in my pink fatty flesh are One, two, three, four flowers in the garden of my head. No pungent reek of death, no agglomeration of rotting flesh, But a potent aroma of life, a patch of fresh flowers. The creature says how there are only four flowers, but I rebuke it: My four flowers are a multitude that I hold near and see as dear. Do not return to cut me open, for I have nothing to fear. The withered flowers have dissipated into dust, And the roots have been uprooted with time. I fear no garden of death, for now I see in my head That new seeds have been planted in my inner flesh, New flowers have emerged and grown, The garden in my head has returned, And the garden will always return.