CANDIRU
Janet Bohac
If you had been
on that South American trip
with me,
you'd have no trouble understanding
what I mean when I say?
I wish I were a candiru.
I would swim up the smallest orifice,
tucking myself away,
out of sight,
then fan out my fins,
lodging myself in your unsuspecting skin.
You would be made to notice me
and I would sit trapped inside you,
giggling like a naughty child
while you screamed like a lunatic
to get me out of your body.
People would look on
with sad, knowing eyes that say?
That one's fallen in love again.
Made crazy by love.
Meanwhile, I'd continue to swim
your great tributaries,
attacking your heart a while.
Next, I'd be in your ear,
coursing the whispering canals,
deafening you with a rush of fluid cries.
When I reach your fingertips,
everyone you touch will have the pain
of me upon their skin.
Once in your eye,
you will see only me
superimposed upon those pretty,
meaningless faces.
In the blood of your lips
you will speak only of me
to ears expecting their own names.
At last, at home in your brain,
I will pierce all those neurons,
jolting them out of their scientific patterns
and all you are
will be reduced
to a solitary obsession.
I want to cripple you
with this body
so small, so seemingly sleek.
I want to puff up my spines
in that tiny hole.
I want you to feel where I am.
I want you to know I am here.