Ceremony

It began with miniature bruises, really.
An index finger pressed hard
against the septum of the nose.
Determined pressure
to rid the face
of one bony protrusion.
Counting to one hundred ten times.
A perverted rosary prayer nightly
without benefit of bead or crucifix
before disappearing into sleep.

Cuts followed later.
Innocuous little incisions,
if you must know,
in the places that had outgrown my bones.
Flesh that had grown too heavy sliced open.
A bloodletting
to flatten flesh to bone.
My clever knife
doing the labor of leeches
across abdomen, thighs, calves even.

The cat-o-nine tails came later, to be honest,
whipping what is more into what should be less.
Beating down the desire
with faithful flagellation.
I admire my own fidelity
as the rhythmic stripes
play a kaleidoscope lament in my head
until the thrashing tool goes limp,
splotched with blood turned
gristle and gray.

Tonight I count my body.
One knee. Two knees. A pair.
One breast. Two breasts. A pair.
Clamp each shut tightly
keeping anything that could penetrate outside
at a secure distance.
I am guardian of this body.
And I sit here erect and silent
knowing where my bone begins,
where my flesh ends.