Mosaic in Nine Lives

Abstract

Mosaic in Nine Lives Ife-Chudeni A. Oputa (bio) I The pearl-sized hole in my sister’s arm is all that remains of our messy ritualafter she cuts and drains the perpetual blackhead that swelled in abscessto the size of a golf ball. The muck that oozes out reeks, has been buildingup beneath her skin for years, only a hint of it sputtering onto my thumbseach time I tried to push the puss out like a sigh, my fingers not nimble enoughto coax the body of its secrets. II When we are still young enough to find the same things wondrous, she teaches me to play dead. This is a drill we run: one of us going limp midsentence while the other runs for help or screamsuntil the dead one says Stop. III the neck bone’s connected to the head bonethe head bone’s connected to the jaw bonethe jaw bone knows to lock downwhen too much truth starts scratching. [End Page 320] IV I am 23 and it is spring, so I break open a new silence and pull queer out like hair from the throat— She is not surprised, says:as a girl, I had a dream where wewere lovers; what else could that mean? V A cocktail or twoand my sister is loose-lippedand earnest, pouts out storiesshe’s forgotten not to tell, will forgetshe’s told in the morning. VI We are women. We land in New York for New Year’s Eve.We walk down the airplane aisle andmy sister goes limp. VII My sister does not want to goto the emergency room,although she cannot zip her own shoes,she cannot walk, she cannot stand. We have not trained for this,so I recite the blackout backto her slumps in seat / eyes roll back / bottom lip slack / hrrrr [End Page 321] then to a flight attendant, two EMTs, our motherslumps in seat / eyes roll back / bottom lip slack / hrrrr a nurse, another nurse, a doctor, our fatherslumps in seat / eyes roll back / bottom lip slack / hrrrr hrrrr hrrrr The specialist shows us the blood clotseffloresced across her lungs like so manydandelion seeds, so many unspoken things. VIII The funny bone, though connected to the arm bone, is not a bone at all. It isthe nerve that after days sleeping upright beside my sister’s bed—head heavyatop my right fist, elbow compressed onto the corner of the armrest—radiates awarning down my forearm to my pinky and ring fingers to go numb, so that Icannot hold a pen or bend my arm or write at all. IX The body wants to be a private thing, this I understand:there are things I still won’t tell, even when she asks. [End Page 322] Click for larger view View full resolution Ife-Chudeni A. Oputa A. H. Jerriod Avant © 2013 [End Page 323] Ife-Chudeni A. Oputa Ife-Chudeni A. Oputa is currently pursuing an MFA in poetry and an MA in African American and African Diaspora Studies at Indiana University, Bloomington. She is a Cave Canem Fellow who has also attended the Callaloo Creative Writing Workshop. Her work has appeared or is forthcoming in [PANK] online, Muzzle, and Kinfolks Quarterly. She is a native of Fresno, CA. Copyright © 2014 The Johns Hopkins University Press