by Avra Margariti
Every day my clockwork moves preordained a cordiform planchette
dragged by some higher power across an Ouija board Goodbye, Hello
step right up to our miniature anatomical theater
for the museum exhibit is about to —
Open heart surgery, not recommended
for those of squeamish constitutions
my poor automaton girl, awaiting upon her metal bed
the smile fixed on her face telling me,
my heart, you are not to blame for this pain;
you cannot go against your cogs and springs any more than
I can stop lying here, ready for the —
Scalpel, clutched in my hand tight as a breath
steady, though my hard metal and soft surfaces
want to rattle and shiver. I hold her heart,
varnished ventricles lifted high as a banner
and the crowd of clapping giants titters, oh, it’s still pulsating!
My chest shriveled, hers a bleeding latticework
laid upon the surgery bed.
Our colossal conductor rewinds us, heart and scalpel
popped back to their rightful places
in chests and drawers
the curtain falling until our next show.
My pretty automaton girl, your poor anatomical heart.
Hello, Goodbye.
Avra Margariti is a queer Social Work undergrad from Greece. She enjoys storytelling in all its forms and writes about diverse identities and experiences. Her work has appeared or is forthcoming in Vastarien, Asimov’s, Liminality, Arsenika, and other venues. You can find her on twitter @avramargariti.
