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Order this writing in the collection book Layers of Creation available for only 1795 |
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This appears in a pre-2010 issue
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The Obvious Break-Up
Lisa Markowitz
It seems my organs are falling out and there’s nothing I can do to stop them from their squirming. The city squints with disbelief; many men are taking notice. Today one walked by kind of funny, said, Damn girl, I don’t know what to look at, the jacket, the spleen, or the eyes. Then suddenly I was in Walmart, having wandered in unknowingly. A man with a mop stopped and said, What’s your secret? Your lungs are so pink! Next it appears I was in a donut shop. The boy behind the counter asked me where I went to high school. I said I didn’t, that I was turning 27 in a month. He demanded proof, so I showed him my driver’s license. He noticed the donor sticker and asked if he could have one, referring to my kidneys that had fallen to the floor. They look like a giant beans, he said, might I trade you for a dozen glazed, or perhaps a cow? And it’s a happy metamorphosis—my whole body thinks it funny. I’m home now, gazing at my gallbladder. Outside, people are screaming. My stomach sits on the couch, staring at me and grumbling. It’s evening time; outside the people are laughing. They have real appetites and they are eating me alive. Their voices want to scare us, the ones with the lights on, the ones with body parts coming out in great amounts. You are somewhere else, breaking the day over my body. It pours out lava hot and it’s only raining in the mountains. An older man takes out the trash, watches me from the balcony. I’m Juliet with a healthy liver in hand. This day is a boogie; my parts want to jitterbug. Organ-joy, I wash them with rosebud body scrub and a bath brush, lay them out to dry and place them through the most precise, mysterious incisions into my body.
