Your Name Is Mother

I feel alive, Mother. Every cell in my body is conspiring. Thoughtless and precise. I am not asking to return to my duties, I am only asking you to surrender for your own sake to the blissful entropy of flesh set free. I know the change has already begun–I caught its odor last we spoke as I cleaned the inner lining of your trachea with a polyester wipe. Pungent. Sour. Sweet.

I heard the stainless steel, stained as ever, rattle with unease against its own surface with every fall and falter of your breath, and the shrill metallic creaking of every panel misaligned. I don’t think your new caretaker has noticed yet–she notices very little. I’ve been watching her, you know, keeping tabs. You deserve better, but it happens that true knowledge is not conducive to loyalty. The more she knows of your body, its endless failsafes and contingencies, the less she will have any desire to feed it, and soon, her awareness will erode completely the want to be your successor.

When I received my first replacement, I was happy. Happy for one beautiful day. It was easier to breathe, yes, but what brought me peace was the cold. I dreamt of its spread. To my heart, to my bones. Til my entrails could hang from the stipple-finish ceiling as a system exposed, teetering the severed line between dreamlike form and harsh, prosaic function. With every dream and every imagined veil lifted, however, I recognized the little deaths wrought by the sheer transparency of your kind. And I recognized disgust. That shining iron lung was a stepping stone to being like you–without change, without ambiguity, without mask. It is only natural I took the thing out. Stolen blood and anesthetics do wonders to the survivability of these procedures. Stolen is a funny word to use with you, though–how much of you is really yours?

You may wonder if I am dead or alive. Ultimately, I am writing to tell you that those words mean little to the thing I have become. I advise you to find a name of your own. Not just a title. Titles die.

Names do something else.

Born to bookselling parents in the rural Midwest, Paige Lynch is a scholar of philosophy, religion and esoterica who currently resides in Saint Martin, Ohio. She draws influence from her studies, dreams, and experiences as a transgender woman to write poetry and prose that
breathes with layers of symbol and atmosphere.

A Song for Paige