Animatronic

Oh right, I have a blog, don't I?


It's been a long time since my last post, but never has the idea of HOSPICE been so real to me as the past few months. It's been a pretty tough time in my family -- it feels these days like everyone has cancer. We lost my grandfather this summer, which was tough enough, but then my very beloved aunt was diagnosed with a particularly nasty breed of cancer, and just a few weeks later, so was my very beloved mother. It feels pretty damned unfair, and my very irrational emotional response was anger.

You sort of want to write a pissed-off letter, or call 311 or something. Excuse me, sir, but my loved ones' bodies are defective. Yes, I've always taken excellent care of them, but I think there was an error in production. They seemed fine and then one day -- pffft.

Cancer! Your body makes it! What the hell, body! Very uncool!

Well the good news is, my mother and her sister (my two all-time favorite women on the planet, by the way) are recovering well. But it's both of their second bouts with cancer, and it all seems rather doomy right now.

If you've read my previous posts, you know about my body hangups. Bodies are weird, bodies are gross, bodies are amazing. Bodies have a mind of their own and will turn on you any second. There are things going on in your body every second of every day  that you will never know about. I just wish the thing would keep me posted, you know? "I've started forming a small structure in your GI tract. I'm trying to destroy it now, but I'm not doing a particularly good job, so you might want to have somebody cut you open and poke around in there a little." Just a newsletter or something.

Anyway, here's a poem. This one was in the 23rd issue of Mastodon Dentist, which is a very excellent poetry magazine, in my opinion. Guess what it's about. Go on, guess.

Animatronic

It was broken, so we buried it.
Buttons and levers buzzed and whirred, but
nothing happened.
It was broken, so we buried it.

It was rotting, so we buried it.
Stripped screws decomposed to red rust
under our fingers.
It was rotting, so we buried it.

It was ugly, so we buried it.
Rust stains peeled back, exposing
cracked tin.
It was ugly, so we buried it.

It was still breathing when we buried it;
white bulbs still lit when we hit the switch.
It coughed awake.
It was still breathing when we buried it.


-Tessa Crosby