Scientists Confirm Visceral Reactions to Graphic Images & One Poem

SCIENTISTS CONFIRM VISCERAL REACTIONS TO GRAPHIC IMAGES

I always thought I’d die a cinematic death,
splayed on a vast expanse of fresh snowfall
that glints back a million stars of sunlight
while a thin trickle of blood blossoms and spreads
like the folds of my red, velvet skirt.

Or if not an icy tableau, perhaps the white
of a clawfoot tub, and me appearing asleep,
the stream of blood billowing like cumulus clouds,
skin pale as the porcelain under a fanfare of steam,
my murder artfully disguised as a suicide.

Movies taught me a woman’s worth,
the importance of beauty, a priority even in death,
so I wore my hair long—it’s what men like—
starved my waist like a waif and grew my nails
just enough to make my hands useless.

Oh, to be weak and defenseless, to faint into the arms
of my protector, my lover, my murderer extraordinaire,
I drank the poison of police procedurals, body prone
on a slab at the morgue, slashed tastefully with wounds
demure and never gaping, skin pallid but supple as a kiss.

I did sit-ups, straightened my teeth, let my tresses
flow like Isadora Duncan’s silky scarf,
and dutifully memorized my safe words when calling
the police, what not to say in case they deemed it
a domestic dispute, and not worth their time.

I had to prove I was a true victim, not one
of the ones who ask for it by wearing dresses,
laughing too loudly, or falling in love, so I traded
my trousers, swapped heels for running shoes,
and filed my nails just short enough to form a fist.

Now look at me, an old woman with yellowed teeth,
steady stare, and hawk-like hands, my silverscreen
projections unspool like reels of celluloid scrapped
on the cutting room floor, unswept and deserving
of this death scene, this culling, this knife.