← v16n1, Spring 2017Poetry · 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.
