Tetanus, Amy Beeder

Agony the wax–white man in spasm, arched

arms tight as flightless wings, rigid fists on ribs

in Bell’s famous painting Opisthotonus. This

is how swift toxins knit the bony fibers, blight

the spine’s fluid; how our haven is invaded by

needle, nail, fish hook, the rusty still–sharp edge

of plow or handsaw. Here are the spores & here

the porous nerves that make a net for crossing.

The cord cut with a dirty shard. The mourning.

The tiny dialogues that bind our fate, all muscles

taut across the long adrenal squall. Now a cursory

search reveals C. tetani as a random scatter: tiny

rods under the lens, bright dice; as shining piles

of clattered tiles thrown down in games of chance.