The Contortionist Speaks of Dislocation
by Rachel Lindley
The trick is not to care about connections. Then there’s no pain
when ligaments twist and the shoulder pops from its socket,
when ribs accordion intercostals or heels bump
against the base of the skull and toenails scrape skin
from cheeks. The body is abandoned so clavicles can bend
backwards and the spine can arch to carry crown to coccyx.
Tendons forget and never know how to hold
their brother bones. Just a light nudge can push
their lax grip to anarchy. They slip away from woman
into an avalanche of buckled scaffolding, a game
of pick-up sticks, a car crumpled around the Pisa lean
of a streetlight, a cherry stem knotted in a closed mouth,
a crushed spider. The crowd cheers my collapse.
Once I was frozen. A shoebox under my bed holds
photos of a girl who tensed between the steel
of family on porch steps, stood stiff at the gate
of a Catholic school with books mooring her
to the cracked cement, and lay like a stone in the snow.
Each shutter snap clipped the same command
from the secret face behind it: capture a girl
beaten into hands without fidgets and irontight braids.
Nothing could be out of place. She is always out of place now.
Each night before muscles coax flesh to fold inwards
and cameras flash to catch this endless metamorphosis,
a square of memory is tucked away between the skin
and skintight suit. It lies below the left breast and counts
the heartbeats of each change. I need it there, I need it
after I let go, so the girl braced against picture clicks
can remind this body where the bones belong.
Rachel Lindley has had both dramatic and light verse published in the CBC Alberta Anthology, Margie Review, Alsop Review, Light Quarterly, Stitches, and the anthology Kiss and Part. Rachel is currently working on two poetry series: Seven Chakras for a Split Brain and Fair Voices: Songs in Three Rings.