Disemboweled

On death, revolution and
Andrea Chénier

Something deep inside scratches to get out. I don’t let it. It begins to claw, eviscerating the cage in which it sits. Evisceration is painful. I tell myself that letting it out will hurt more and know that that makes no sense. I’ve done this before, even more than once. I feel. I wish I didn’t. And then, because I have no other choice I break. And out it pours: I am carrion. My smell attracts that which will tear me to shreds and give me eternal life. See how it stretches into a cross, waiting? It is rather majestic it its ugliness and that is why I cry. And why we all avoid what we ultimately can’t.

That aria reduces me to tears every time I hear it. She died and saved her daughter and it is a story, a fine one but it isn’t mine. The pain, the love and death, whispers. I know it is only for me to hear, “Porto sventura a chi bene mi vuole!” (I bring misfortune to all who care for me!) It is true. I bear no fault, not anymore. I accept it.

How am I to feel, react or sing when my own body betrays me? I sold myself for life and got nothing useful. She saved her daughter. Her maid sold herself for medicine and a cure. There is no cure for this. And I am left to myself. I can only gather what is left and feel it all before I can feel nothing. You still believe that someone will save you, don’t you, from life, from grief, from death? It is the gift of time, that’s all. Be happy that you have it.

The claws rip my viscera but it is the beak that tears me wide apart and pecks my organs. I cannot stitch the holes quickly enough. I bleed and stitch and I rebel. And finally surrender. And become. I must die to become.

I do not need your advice, just any comfort you have to offer. Advice is a way not to hear me or you or anyone. I am dying. Isn’t that enough to cause you to listen? And if it isn’t, then why not?

“Murderer!” I thought they were speaking to me. The thundering hooves, the howling wolves, forgetfulness. I was never meant to be light or light, in weight or in illumination. Still, everyone acts as if I was and as if there is an answer, as if one size fits all or even most. We are all unique and fight that, too.

The sun rises and sets and will with or without me, with or without. I will not be dismissed only disclosed. I rage in Keats’ dark, I do, and yearn for his dark vapors and for Sweet Sappho’s cheek and even there in the running sand come the poet’s death. The silence born of fear, the fear of death is where I sit, alone, whispering. Once this place and the whispers were shared before man became god, incurious and unable to create anything unique or useful or out of love. And now?

Condemn me at your own peril for you share this fate, deny it all you like. Death will come. It cannot be cured. It sits above us all, waiting and will come of its own device and in its own way.

Experience the loneliness you ache so to avoid that you forsake who you are. I do not mean to seem harsh only truthful which once meant something. Hiding made it so small but it always spills out.

And so I begin again, carrion. I am embarrassed and afraid. Yet the moment it spills and that bird circles and lands, “Fu in quel dolore che a me venne l’amor!” (It was in that grief that love came to me!) I ask yet again, “How can such hurt, such unending pain heal me?” yet is always does.

“E l’angelo si accosta, bacia,e vi bacia la morte! Corpo di moribonda e il corpo mio. Prendilo dunque. Io son gia morta cosa!” (And the angel approaches with a kiss and Death is kissing you. My body is a dying body. So take it I’ve already died!) Take it! Take it now!

I can whisper, too. And die many times to become who I am. It is not for me to decide. Remember, I surrendered. Yet still, I fight it until I no longer can and surrender yet, again. I hurt so badly that I have to cry and learn what I can from kissing Death and grief until I am gone. And gone I will be.

My body will be cremated. Ashes, dust and shards of bone It is always surprising to sift through what was once. I can live forever added to the soil. I will help a tree grow fertile and fruit. I am no one’s mother nor did I sell myself for medicine, although I did sell myself short and more than once. You may judge me.

My gift to you will be that when it is your time, I will judge you not. And not just because I won’t care. Because I listened and I heard. Because I loved. And I did not spit you out.

“Vivi ancora! Io son la vita! Ne’ miei occhi e il tuo cielo! Tu non sei sola!Le lacrime tue io le raccolgo! Io sto sul tuo cammino e ti sorreggo! Sorridi e spera! Io son l’amore!” (You have to live! I am the life itself! Your heaven is in my eyes! You’re not alone! I’ll collect all your tears! I’ll walk with you and support you! Smile and hope! I am love!)

That is comfort, not advice: holy and complete.