On the Dissection of the Body of Tiamat

 

They wrote about it, how quietly you came
apart. They spent days admiring it, the togetherness
of your flesh. What of a mountain without
height? Weak skin that would rather
spread than hold itself up. Like a man’s chest,
flat, the consequence of lying
on his stomach.

House them inside of you,
all of them: Lachmu Lachamu,
Ansar, Kisar, Ea. Remember
you are only your body. You are just
this skin. You are the vessel in which
power is delivered, no leakage,
no leftover.

I would have told them to stop,
to let me born to a world of flat desert

where the earth does not
begin where your body
ends,

where they don’t bisect
us to form sky,

[to make room
                             for themselves,

            to build cities on the insides
                              of our mouths]

where they are all kept
away from their knives.