Val Morehouse - Healed

With knives he carves my woman’s flesh
into new peaks and valleys, cuts
out the center of rebellion,
that audacity of dysfunction,
tying me together with twine like
a human bridge suspended over the
chasm of ends and beginnings.

My body hangs swinging gently
from strings like a puppet.
“Two weeks, ” he says, “come back
and you will be healed.” Healed?
No. I will be born again into myself,
strings cut, escaped in disguise,
a duplicate of a remembered original.

Val Morehouse

http://www.poemhunter.com/poem/healed-4/