Last night I watched myself turn into the demon
that I have always been, looped in masking
tape in the trunk of a Buick on 59th St. with a bag
of Chinatown fish thrust between my scapula.
Space often fools you.
I took it into my mouth over and over. The sacred
logic of cruelty often persists, especially in small
locked boxes, that whisper between my ribs.
Obtaining the Beloved
I twirl a butter knife on the ouija board, read the grounds
in my french press, cast runes in the bathtub. In order
to escape the anguish of identity, one can die
or attempt momentary erasure with unabashed
eroticism. A third resort is to find continuity in God. I tattooed
my inner thighs last week, stick and poke, screwed a shaman,
but I still cannot bring you to life.
Angela Sundstrom works for Mother Jones magazine and writes book reviews for Time Out New York magazine. She recently received her MFA from The New School. She has a penchant for Masoche and Deleuze. Tweet at her @somatiqua.