Cut Janice N. Harrington (bio) Want to watch me cut up a chicken? my mother asks.A daughter’s lesson: to cut or take apart,to slip a kitchen knife between muscle and ball joint. Stoics split the soul, stored its fractionsin the chambers of the heart. Use a sharp knife,she said. The dull blade, more treacherous, slips. A woman learns how easily flesh parts,the pressure needed to pop a joint, to sever gristle.Use salt water to soak the meat. Blood ruins, taints. Well-schooled, I trim the seams of fat, flingthe offal into its sack. Let the flies come.Let them transcribe it all anew. Cut reduced toparts quarter ed processed: My father lies nakedon a steel gurney, his ribs pried open. The cargo takenfrom his stomach. His heart—its black chamberscaulked and sealed with fat, black ballast, blackstone—is chopped free, held in a rubber glove,and weighed. Skin is the body’s largest organ. My father’s skinwas brown and mottled with mole. Split open—his body waits for the official report. A gloved handrepacks and staples the chest’s cavity, records, signs,and stamps complete. I hold what remains. Woman’s work—the art of cutting and cutting away—to part and part from. [End Page 3] Janice N. Harrington JANICE N. HARRINGTON, an associate editor of Callaloo, is author of The Hands of Strangers: Poems from the Nursing Home (2011), Even the Hollow My Body Made Is Gone (2007), winner of the A. Poulin, Jr. Poetry Prize and the Kate Tufts Discovery Award, and a number of books for children. She teaches creative writing at the University of Illinois in Urbana-Champaign. Copyright © 2015 The Johns Hopkins University Press
Read full abstract