Primordial Suture

My fingers slid across your back,
a replay of a thousand times -
smooth skin, warmer than my fingertips,
soft fur parting across your shoulders.

Toward the middle, nearer your waist,
I felt it -
a tiny rough spot, 
a catch on the smooth,
a place to pause, feel with another finger,
investigate with a fingernail
and try to dislodge.

It was so tiny,
a sticker or a cactus spine
in the middle of perfection.

I forced my hands away,
not the time - not the situation,
but as I forgot, there it was.
Again, under my finger's whorls
it poked,
announcing its presense.

This time, I caught it.
I snagged it with a nail.
"Stop!" you said,
with a mischeivous grin,
"It's a primordial suture!"

"You haven't had stitches in years,"
I replied, prying the miniscule tag,
the misplaced facial whisker,
the almost microscopic splinter of pine
from your back.

I felt it loose, 
heard you gasp,
and felt a cool breeze blow through
the closed and curtained window.

The cats hit the floor with a run,
the dog backed and whined in terror,
and I just watched
wide-eyed
as you fell to pieces in my arms.

Your head split into sixteen,
your eyes bounced -
rolled off the foot of the bed 
and out the door.

Your ears sprang into the air,
straightened out and 
sailed into the bathroom.
Teeth rattled as they
chattered into one another
and your nostrils sniffed and turned,
landing on either side
of multifaceted, soft-grey,
cubes of crystallized brain.

The disassociation spread as
your clavicles slid off the bed 
and cartwheeled across the room.
Bits of arm and chest carpeted me.
Tufts of fur tangled into my hair,
and skin sheets closed my eyes
as they blanketed my face with freckles.

As I cleared my sight, 
lungs, liver, spleen and heart
escaped from their ribbed cage,
landing in vivid red-purple chunks 
on the plush grey carpet.
Stomach, colon and the rest 
slithered onto the velvet quilt.

Slices of thigh and calf
complete with femur, patela,
tibia and fibula,
rolled apart like some
burst roll of Neccos wafers.

The travel of your ankles and feet
ended at the apartment door,
pinkie toes knocking to get out.

I heard someone screaming,
told myself to shut-up,
and loosed myself from the disarray.

It was odd.
It was as if you had no blood,
no lymph - no fluids at all.
Everything was in cubes
or slices
or pieces
or bones.

I knew I should vomit,
but it was too clean for that.

So, I stared....
and plotted....
how to put the puzzle
of you together again.

I went to the top of your thigh
and lifted the first slice.
All the others moved.
And so I knew....
I felt along the top
till I found
the tiny cactus spine
of a primordial suture.

I pulled on it
and your pinkie toe
knocked on the door.

I yanked, reassembling your leg.
The pieces shifted and rolled,
orienting themselves to each other.
First, the left,
then the right.

Your shoulders were easy,
the clavicles were the keys.
Like a puppet's, as I pulled,
your arms moved and jerked,
realigning themselves.
Your fingers lined up 
next to each other.
They nodded,
seeming to check 
each other's location.

The chest was harder,
the stitches hid,
one below each nipple.
Ribs clinked 
and lungs sighed in reassembly.

The head was a knot
behind each ear -
both had to be pulled
in synchrony
and as I drew them taught,
their winding springs squealed.

I had to retrieve your eyes
from under the sewing machine.
Lidless, they stared at me blankly -
as though they didn't know me,
not that I blame them....

Soon, I had assemblages,
seven in all -
your head, 
your torso in hemispheres,
two arms and two legs.

But, I knew I was missing something -
the parts wouldn't join.
I was afraid I was taking too long.
Frightened I searched....

I heard the dog whining
under the bed, 
and there, by the leg,
on the edge of the quilt,
was your cock.

It moved when I gasped.
It seemed to reach for my hand.
I picked it up, caressed it
and started to cry.

Again, it moved.
Suddenly, I knew
what I had foolishly forgotten -
the cock is the key to a man.

Quickly, I gathered all
the invisible threads
that joined your thousands of pieces
and pulled them together
at the base of your cock.

I backed up and watched.
The threads began to glow. in rainbows
Rainbow threads wound around each other.
They wrapped and knotted and pulled,
finally knotting with that last thread,
the heart-of-you thread,
and with the proverbial 
puff-of-smoke,
there you were.

You whistled your
exasperation whistle,
smacked my bare behind,
and said, "I told you so.
Never touch the primodial suture."
Then you kissed me.

Don't you remember?

Kathleen Hover
01/20/03