Spectrum_06_2021

ANIMAE LIBERAE
Text Maria Papantuono und Amira Khali
Illustration Alyna Reading
Holy meat
They cannot find it.
The light that went by near the riverside, I saw it,
they are looking for it.
They cannot find it.
A body in the water, breaking its flow, manifestation
of a heretical thought.
Finding it is heresy, I heard the sirens, now a broken
soul and body remain, cold, white, and swollen.
I don’t want to see it.
They need to find it; it adapted to the river’s flow. They
will find it.
It will reappear on the surface once it becomes lighter
than the water in its lungs.
They have to find it.
I didn’t hear the sirens. I saw the blue lights interrupting
that cold night’s darkness.
How ironic that I clearly saw the line between bright and
dark.
I have to see it; I need to see it.
Don’t you feel it creeping up your spine? That darkness
you are talking about, it cannot come to the
surface. Disfigured, you wouldn’t be able to recognize
it.
I can feel it crawling, slow and wet. I’m not ready and
I never will.
Is it the body you want to see, or the soul leaving it?
Don’t try to pretend to be less guilty than you know
you are.
You are so naïve, you live for the next life, not this one.
Your lack of knowledge is baffling, you would put coins
in its mouth to pass the Styx, confuse it with a vampyr
because its hair grew.
It is already cold, white, and swollen and I need to see it.
I must see nature dominating.
Geist? Esprit? Pure imagination. The body is meat, nothing
more.
I know I am guilty; we all are.
I did not see the internal darkness, but I need to see the
body.
What is holy should not be touched. Flesh was alive
and now it’s an unnamed mass that cannot answer
its name.
You pretend to recognize it when it has lost all that
made it human. How can you only call flesh what
you used to call by name. Life was drowned out of it.
Can you call it nature when nature had nothing to do
with it? The only force I see is the river, and the body
dropping inside, proclaiming itself the hand of God.
The body is the wreck, the darkness was a test, failed.
Sick is the need to see it, hold yourself before you
become the very thing that broke the flow. You want
to take its place, don’t you?
I call by name the memories, the missed opportunities
when we did not comprehend, not the shell that caused
so much suffering.
Nature takes us all back some day. Do you consider
yourself so unworthy of choosing when? While you blame
the river, I understand the pain, the exhaustion of
enduring life.
Some are tired faster than others. They stand while
everyone keeps walking. They look at the same painting
and fail to see the colours. Listen to the same song but
only hear a scream. You should consider these feelings
natural, silly.
I understand the decision; that’s why I need to see it.
Seeing it is violent betrayal. Trying to remember
its shape, now disfigured, is recognizing the brutal
dance that sculpted it, the unforgivable and willing
choice to disregard its own humanity.
I knew that body, I still know its name. I get shivers
when I hear it on the streets, its dead eyes looking
at me, my soul trembling, saying that one day I will
transcend too.
And still, you want to look at it. Still, you want
to stare at the dead limbs, the arms that used to
embrace you, the feet that used to run to you, you
want to see them, now cold.
If you could listen to the screaming flow, the red
river, you would turn your back to it, horrified by
your own sick perversion.
We knew that body and we both called its name and
now we can’t.
Stop projecting your fears onto me.
Please try to understand, I need to look into its eyes that
no longer see the beauty of this world or the misery or
the pain.
We need to see the cold lips that no longer talk, maybe
find an explanation.
Maybe it looks peaceful. Maybe then we can start grieving.
Peace is not to be violated with pain.
A peaceful mind is a luxury.
Just don’t look, don’t complain.
I need to see the corps to accept the tragedy.
Move on, the soul has.
What soul, you naïve little thing?
The one that you obviously lack.
It's non-existent to what you cling.
I forgive the sinner, I condemn the sin
How dare you call it a sin this cry for help?
Both of you are cruel the same. You too should rest
if that is what you crave.
.
.
Maybe I will.
12.21
spectrum
27