First,

you placed a rock under my heart,

on the left, between the ribs.

Now, every time I breathe

I have to lift the weight.

It’s good; it’s good.

My bones are getting stronger.

I cannot forget.

Then,

you cut my feet.

No ugly roots can grow out of my toes.

I don’t need a pedicure any more.

It’s good; it’s good.

I can fly, but I cannot land.

When I get tired

I can dive straight into the ocean:

beak down.

Next,

you taught me another language,

but you pulled out my tongue.

I am a polyglot now.

It’s good; it’s good.

I have more space in my mouth

for words.

I can chew my thoughts into small pieces,

and still choke on verbs.

More?

Oh, yes, my Lord!

You chopped off my hands.

I can no longer touch;

I cannot feel your skin with my fingertips.

It’s good; it’s good.

Now I am so slim

I can fall through the cracks

without being scratched.

Models envy me.

I spend no money on jewelry.

You were still working hard,

oh Lord. Poor you!

You scored my eyes with one sharp stroke.

Now I can barely see the sun.

I don’t need my sunglasses any more.

It’s good; it’s good.

I bleed inside,

so my eyes are still green.

I am a beautiful woman.

I can smell the grass.

I can hear you coming.

What now?