From the Archives: We originally published this poem in Booth #1. This is the first time this work has appeared online.
I am happy they are here. In their long gowns. Their white masks. Like bandits who can’t keep from doing good. They spread their silver tools out on the table. As if some ritual were about to commence. Now I won’t have to cut into myself. And pull the rotten parts out. Excuse me while I retire into my ether. Where everything smells like home. And people speak in hieroglyphs. Their fingers are probing inside me now. Caressing one organ. Nudging back the next. A kind of intimacy I normally do not allow. But this is an exceptional case. And I must be a good host. Just now they have paused beside a dark pool. Like explorers lost in the territories. One kneels, cups his hands and samples the waters. The others wait. I’m the one looking over their shoulders. Holding the banner aloft.