Shouting silently in the operating theatre,
I become multiple, as all pandemonium's angels
arose from one idea.
Later at Mount Pleasant, neither mountain nor,
I hover over slicing letters, parcels tumbling
between destinations.
I discern my own estranged members,
more than parings if less than limbs.
A dungeon's devices
are indistinguishable from early surgical tools.
I am coming home, I am leaving for good with no
expectation of rest.
At last the day is sorted. Whether growths
or creations, my chattels jostle in their sacks
and renounce me.
By Carrie Etter