Sunday, September 09, 2007
The Metaphor's Lament
I have held a heart close to my nose. It smelled of cold and fungicide. So tough, my scapel slipped instead of slicing: I screamed like a girl in disgust and frustration. Inside it had holes and more rot. It was slippery, heavy -- I became dizzy. I saw the toads splayed and skinned, pinned to the wall, beckoning to me, the red pin heads bobbing. I wiped my palms on my blouse, my back pack, the paper towels. My lab partner refused to look at me, spent the whole class in the corner with his girlfriend, trying to wend his fingers through the slit in her stone-washed skirt.
I'm not sure about that first line -- I keep going back between "I have held" and "I held".