Mosaic in Nine Lives

I

The pearl-sized hole in my sister’s arm is all that remains of our messy ritualafter she cuts and drains the perpetual blackhead that swelled in abscessto the size of a golf ball. The muck that oozes out reeks, has been buildingup beneath her skin for years, only a hint of it sputtering onto my thumbseach time I tried to push the puss out like a sigh, my fingers not nimble enoughto coax the body of its secrets.

II

When we are still young enough    to find the same things wondrous,        she teaches me to play dead. This is a drill

        we run: one of us going limp midsentence    while the other runs for help or screamsuntil the dead one says Stop.

III

the neck bone’s connected to the head bonethe head bone’s connected to the jaw bonethe jaw bone knows to lock downwhen too much truth starts scratching.

IV

I am 23 and it is spring, so    I break open        a new silence            and pull            queer out            like hair        from the throat—

She is not surprised, says:as a girl, I had a dream where wewere lovers; what else could that mean?

V

A cocktail or twoand my sister is loose-lippedand earnest, pouts out storiesshe’s forgotten not to tell, will forgetshe’s told in the morning.

VI

We are women. We land in New York for New Year’s Eve.We walk down the airplane aisle andmy sister goes limp.

VII

My sister does not want to goto the emergency room,although she cannot zip her own shoes,she cannot walk, she cannot stand.

We have not trained for this,so I recite the blackout backto her    slumps in seat / eyes roll back / bottom lip slack / hrrrr

then to a flight attendant, two EMTs, our motherslumps in seat / eyes roll back / bottom lip slack / hrrrr

a nurse, another nurse, a doctor, our fatherslumps in seat / eyes roll back / bottom lip slack / hrrrr hrrrr hrrrr

The specialist shows us the blood clotseffloresced across her lungs like so manydandelion seeds, so many unspoken things.

VIII

The funny bone, though connected to the arm bone, is not a bone at all. It isthe nerve that after days sleeping upright beside my sister’s bed—head heavyatop my right fist, elbow compressed onto the corner of the armrest—radiates awarning down my forearm to my pinky and ring fingers to go numb, so that Icannot hold a pen or bend my arm or write at all.

IX

The body wants to be a private thing, this I understand:there are things I still won’t tell, even when she asks.

Ife-Chudeni A. Oputa

A. H. Jerriod Avant © 2013