The first incision was toughest: a guess, really,
at the circumference of that oblong little bone,
knifetip testing a riot of gooseflesh, raising
a tangle of hot white scrapes.
Would you believe there was no moment
of self-steeling: breath even and shallow,
conviction blooming lush with that first thrust
into soft tissue; a hint of pressure sliding
into a queasy sawing lilt; each rip totalizing;
snagging something gristly, uncooperative—
a muscular pull and a slick, wet crack
as the cartilage gave over what was already yours.
If I could crawl still, I would slide toward you
in this lukewarm, ever-widening pool of salt
and beg, head bowed, for you to finally
hold my devotion in your hands.
Zachary Cooper is a librarian and body horror enthusiast with degrees in film studies and nonfiction writing. He published a bunch of work under a name he no longer uses, so, oops—but feel free to check out his recently resuscitated Substack: https://trotzdem.substack.com/
