Visibility
       

shines light on the monster in the corner,
prepares us for the grief that comes after
the loss that hasn't happened yet, but will.

The parts of its body are not monstrous,
there is no freakish extremity to chronic,
incurable illness. Giving one's silhouette

a name, a face, an outline, color, and texture
is not an act of surrender, but ownership.
Sometimes, the greater miscreation is

the one unseen even when the sun is zenith
high. To put pen to paper, voice to mic,
needle to corpse may appear to animate

atrocity, but let's remember: Frankenstein
was a doctor first, a mortal who cowered
in shadows, summoning lightning bolts

for illumination because the privileged
refused to invest in more humane inquiry.
We are left to the piecework of calamities—

stitching arm to shoulder, knee to shin,
lash to lid, heart to breastbone—wrapping
ourselves in fabric dyed by tears, shed

in secret, to flesh out worst-case scenarios.
This is not abomination, but permission to
persist. We are not vectors; the reservoir

of our mortality can no more be blamed on
failures in personal virtuosity than long life
can be credited for intentional acts of biology.

So cast your deeper, darker shade upon us,
but let's not forget: Frankenstein was a
doctor first, a monster only second born.

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Copyright © 2021 Tamara Kaye Sellman All rights reserved
from Intention Tremor
MoonPath Press
Reprinted by Verse Daily® with permission