Tarot: Queen of Wands; Reversed

 (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 contained the Capitalist bourgeoisie, Land Barons, and a Deaconess spouting sacramental catechumens for the sake of modesty.  Through their surgical intervention my tongue would become my husband’s tongue. Sutured. The last domestic stitch he would undergo.

 I saw him unconscious on his own metal table, breathing through a sheer shroud of gauze. Delicate. Almost pretty.  An anesthetic fog. Not even his vulnerability bothering him.

 I’d been told that having only bravado and masculine posturing, he would recover by speaking my words. He would summarize books I’d read and told him about as if he’d read them. My meticulously formed opinions would be his conclusions. I thought I was fine with this. If my words came from a male mouth, then they might be listened to. If my tongue were patched onto his tongue, he would finally say meaningful things. Beautiful, fanciful prose, like a fountain from his mouth.

 Almost too late I realized the lie. I was the only one able to speak my truths. I struggled through the drugged stupor, and brandishing a scalpel, I killed him. Many say I over-reacted. That I crossed a line. That I should have aimed for the Doctors. Others, that I am truly, a woman.