← v16n1, Spring 2017
Poetry · Volume 16, Number 1

Amor Fati

When I sat, small,

in the operating room,

cowering before his knife,

begging against the trach

he threatened, I did not

know that these cuts would

save more than my body.

I would not negate any of it

now if I could. I carry

the discomfort like a koan

in my mouth, mindful

of the days I lost unliving.

dormancy as if it were leashed

to the resounding yes of the

universe. With your hands

on my neck’s scars, I love

them. You trace the long path

of my survival with your

whole tongue. If Nietzsche’s

demon appears, I can finally

greet him as a god proclaiming

beauty. I will speak with my

ravaged tongue, cut me again

and again, make me whole.