Mireille Eid

Blood and Myrrh

 

Another piercing.
This time to take something out.
Squatting amongst velvet walls
a forgotten body of water
has stagnated
with the passing of the months.

 

She did not know
it was there
she had been swimming
watching the horizon swell
mistaking it for a life form.

 

Now, they slide and they stir
just behind the clamped opening
key after key
Oh! what froth
to tantalise the waiting crowd!

 

It will come
they tell her
with a feeling of something pushing
her legs apart.

 

Not at all
with the pain
once green, once red
flashing against the needles
and the chemistry.

 

The invasion begins
emptying her body
only her ears are left intact
to listen to the rustling
of the plastic sheeting beneath her.

 

And the hushed voices,
they keep caressing a shell
made of a thin membrane
a mother has woven
on another planet
another bed
another time.

 

The counting of the ghosts
the ebb and flow of the fists
no, not yet
bruises have not yet formed
on her forehead, her arms
her breasts and her thighs.

 

She has to wait
for the ceremonial floods
for the tearing of the soaked skin
for the carcass with the kohl
in its eyes.

 

Nothing, nothing
the gloved hands
open and shut
open and shut
escape, escape
blood and myrrh
and all the way down to hell.

 

But the sky
finally
rewards her with the putrid jewel
a crown, a rope
a lost totem
it leaves her blind, deaf and mute.

 

And lucky they tell her
that her night has ended
before dawn
twisted from the deluge
and with no air for it to breathe.

 

She can go home now.

 

©Mireille Eid

  

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