Today you will have your ribs
replaced with aluminium rods. Already your eyes
are polycrystalline, your lungs are carbon
fibre, your limbs are silicone and you bash them
into concrete walls. Your liver is mesh, your blood
is battery acid. You walk into a room and magnetize
metal objects (avoid kitchens). Your cellphone sticks
to your hands. The surgeon splits you open and lets you
peek at your rib cage, lets you keep
a bone shard as a souvenir. In recovery, you suck
down protein shakes spiked with ibuprofen and munch
the straw with your titanium implants. Always remember
when they pulled out your teeth (like plump beets
from the veggie patch in your
primary school). The teacher flogged you
with a birch rod for swallowing mouthfuls
of slug-jewelled soil, for trying to bury yourself,
name yourself. You wanted to sprout roots (be reborn),
you craved escape, craved reincarnation.
