(c) 1/12/2023
I didn’t sign any papers; it was mutual—
a handshake. Culturally driven.
Just the way things are.
The team of umbrageous doctors included
Capitalist bourgeoisie, the Entitled—
A Priest or two.
Through their surgical intervention
my tongue would become my husband’s tongue.
Sutured. The only domestic stitch he would undergo.
I saw him unconscious on his own metal table—
Delicate. Almost pretty.
Breathing through a sheer shroud of gauze and anesthesia.
Not even his vulnerability bothering him.
I’d been told that his having only bravado
and masculine posturing,
he would recover when he started to speak my words,
when he would summarize books I’d read as if he’d read
them.
My meticulously formed opinions
would be his conclusions.
If my words came from a male mouth
then they might be listened to—
he would say meaningful things.
Almost too late I realized the lie—
I was the only one able to speak my truths.
I struggled through the drugged stupor, brandishing a
scalpel
I killed him.
Many say I over-reacted. That I crossed a line.
That I should have aimed instead for the Doctors.
