Dead . . .Dead . . . Dead . . . Dead . . .

You began so Softly -- running the blunt edge of the Blade up and down my Chest as we made love. But then You turned Your wrist as we echoed the preacher, "Until Death do us part,"

and Carved a deep incision, Y-shaped

from my Pubic Hair up to the bottom of each Shoulder -- carefully curving around my . . . . . . . . .Breasts.

As I lay there, I asked Why there was no Blood -- my Heart was still pumping, my Veins still flowing,

And YOU answer that WOMEN are to be SILENT in church, as YOU cut the

Skin from my Ribcage

and pull it up

over my Face.

With the taste of skin in my Mouth, I let Your words be mine.

YOU easily fold away the skin from my Abdomen,
but for the Ribcage, YOU need a Saw.
An electric, doubled-edged
Blade
that reminds me a wife's body belongs to her husband, that she is to please
Him.

. . . . . . . .On Sundays, I stand at your side -- a smiling Preacher's wife, learning to be empty . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . of me, so that I can be full . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . of You, of God.

A quick slash with the scalpel, and my Lungs are removed.

You Slice them like Bread --
trying to discover WHY I thought I could use them to Breath.
My kidneys, Stomach, and Spleen You Weigh on the meat scale,
then toss aside --
but my Ovaries You let me keep.

Piercing the Pericardial Sac,
You insert

Your Finger into my Heart

taking it out

as
I
learn
AGAIN
and
AGAIN
of
Your
i
n
f
i
d
e
l
i
t
i
e
s

Then,. . . . . . . . . . . . . You hand the Scalpel to God.

He cuts the back of my Head from Ear to Ear
to see if I know Anything other than Him.

Peeling back my Scalp, He takes His double-edged Saw and cuts around the Cranium's Equator, pulling off the top of my Skull.

Cradling my Brain in His hands,
He kisses it
and keeps it for Himself.

While You replace the top of my Head and sew up the Incisions --

Happy with the Empty shell
You call Your wife.