Poetry: Contract by Kelly Hanwright

I come to you open armed and open eyed,

Feet planted on firm warm stone,

My mask is peeled from my face and cast behind me,

its chrome and hollow sockets glinting in the yellow day.

I have no cape; no magic powers.

I am ready to begin.

For you, I am stripped naked and flogged

by the tireless whip of ink streaming from my pen

while molten tears hot as the stuff

from the smith’s furnace scar my cheeks

and trace pour-patterns in my desk.

Dinner is served:

my heart seared rare just the way you like,

with a glass of blood extracted drop for drop

from my veins by the sticky probe of anguish

pricking like a phlebotomist’s needle.

I break out my teeth and lay them on the table;

lift them and examine for rises and depressions.

I flay the skin of my chest

and expose my skeleton’s smooth white bones,

hollow and fragile as china.

Place your hand on my clavicle.

Run it down my ribs if you wish,

I do not charge admission,

but I do request

input.

Give me your eyes and your ears.

Pluck them out, slip them off,

Drop them in; watch my skin

regenerate, growing over to smooth my gaping innards.

I will take your hand,

And stand.