by Chiara Di Lello
I broke out of your body they told you I had to for years I knew nothing of suture or seep – I believe the tale you tell of the male doctor who had no faith in supple or stretch and leapt instead for the certainty of slice I left it wounded, the bone cradle you wrapped around me If it were me, opened and sewed up again would the memory ever sound like anything but blade? If it were someone who did it, not something would their face turned toward me not always say knife? behind my eyes turns a tiny, vicious machinery what you keep from me moves the wheels I broke out of your body you tell me I had to it happened to me but I happened to you ____
Chiara Di Lello is a writer and teacher whose work has appeared in Best New Poets, Noble / Gas Qtrly, Little Patuxent Review, and Yes Poetry, among others. She delights in public art, public libraries, and biking through New York City.