The Body in Extremis Kim Addonizio First I think of it as a factory where the foreman’s passed out drunk in his high room with the little window while the radio slides into static and down below no one gives a shit about pride in labor considering what they’re paid so one by one they’re taking off their goggles and aprons and building a huge bonfire in the center of the room and banging the metal carts against one another while a few holdouts stay grimly at their tasks and try to ignore the din. But all that’s mechanical and wrong so I close my eyes to try again: your body is a vase of flowers, their brown stalks slick in the fetid water, the shrunken tissue of the petals falling on a scarred table beside an old couch – stained, burn-holed – a sunken shape in a darkened living room. Outside is the worst section of the city, figures hurrying into doorways, up to no good, random gunshots and exploding glass, alarms, alarms – amazing what the mind can do and still fail to absorb the plain fact of you, railed-in and dying. In this nearly sterile room there are no more ways to imagine your thin form beneath the covers, your face I now bend close to kiss, and whatever I make of the grief that’s coming, it won’t change this, this. -- p2: defenestrate --

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