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Фледа Браун/ Fleda Brown
| Through Security I take off my boots because of their steel shanks. I take out my orthotics, place my coat and purse in the bin, place my carry-on on the belt. I take off my shirt, my jeans, my bra. I take out my contacts. I take off my makeup and earrings, strip the dye from my hair. I relax my stomach to its honestly protruding shape. Still, it’s all over the TVs about me. I’m buzzed again as if there’s been no progress at all since the club-carrying, the dragging-by-the-hair. I take off my skin, veins flying like ropes, organs dropping away one by one. I address the additional matter of bones: unfasten ball from socket, unhook ligaments, leave the electronic eye no place to rest. I am almost ready to go, if I could quit thinking, the thinking that goes on almost without knowing, the tiny person crossing her legs in the back of the mind, the one who says, "I still love you, dear guilty flesh.” | |
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