Extractions
Picture this:
me and my mother
on our hands and knees
tearing up an orange
shag carpet
in our old apartment.
Peeling back foam
and mold, we groped
our way to wood.
We’re fixing up the place,
my mother said,
but I was already dreaming
of Paris. Of the men
in Gustave Caillebotte’s
painting Les raboteurs de parquet.
Of how they hunched
over while sanding
a hardwood floor.
How I admired
their muscled backs,
their nimble exertion,
this whittling the body
down to its joints.
Do you only teach
your sons your trade?,
I whispered as if I, too,
were part of this scene,
just slightly off stage.
At my feet, wooden
shavings curled
like the tendrils
I tucked behind my ears.
Pushing earrings through
semi-closed holes,
I delighted
in drawing blood,
in feeling the sharp
inner workings
of my body,
of metal on skin.
In scraping back
the layers, in letting
each ligament burn.
Ligament, from ligare:
to bind, to tie.
To hold captive,
yes, that too,
but also to cohere.