Under the Knife
In the fall, at the start of a new semester, you brushed
by me, designer skinny jeans, body waxed bleached
linoleum floors, no more traces of stubborn sideburns.
You wore a tiny new nose. We used to joke about
how we could be sisters. We sat in hallways, cross-
legged, against the cool of lockers. I did not hear
how metal spoke to a distant cousin, sterilized-
I did not know of your alchemy of ruin.
Those storage units of secrets, keepers of classes,
folded notes & magazine cutouts whispered
insults. You pinched excess skin & sighed at
your profile, said: I don’t want this mountain on my face.
During break, your family paid a gloved man to hammer,
to slice, & bloody “Little Ararat.” He flattened a jutting
peak to acceptable. When you returned, reconstructed,
smelling of burnt hair & perfume, I had to look twice.
You reminded me of home. How could I erase you?
You spent the rest of high school ignoring me
& I forgave you. I was old enough to understand this:
To stop, to look into my eyes, meant to risk reflection.
Originally published in 580 Split.