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The Offering
The curtain rises at 8:30 pm.
This is my final performance -
my last offering.
I wear a long, red, shiny satin gown,
with flowing sleeves
making wings
when I raise my arms.
On my feet are three-inch heels
to lift me off the ground.
Center stage, in the spotlight,
sits the rectangular black table,
stirrups facing the audience —
the usual black hole
of bodies and faces.
I walk onto the stage
and lay down on the table,
placing my feet in the stirrups,
spreading my legs . . .
(a slight moment of tension
when the thighs will not release —
then the letting go —
the surrender.)
I slowly pull up my red gown,
until I can feel the spotlight shining
hot between my legs.
I begin singing a song
about a man holding me in his arms
and me seeing life
through rose-colored glasses.
I reach down the front of my dress,
pulling a necklace
from between my breasts —
a switchblade on a golden chain.
I take the switchblade from the chain,
singing all the while
of life through rose-colored glasses .
. .
of a man I'd follow anywhere . . .
My legs — spread wide apart —
are a shimmering golden gate,
open to the spotlight.
My three-inch heels in the stirrups,
I place the switchblade between my legs —
its tip nestled in my hair.
The audience gasps.
I push the button —
release the blade
which shoots out —
inside of me.
I am still singing.
In a swift circular motion,
I neatly slice off a piece of my cervix,
pulling out the blade
with my flesh offering skewered on its
tip.
I rise up from the table
with both hands lifting the blade aloft
for all to behold my sacrifice.
I have red wings.
I stand with my legs apart,
pouring a crimson path to the audience.
They applaud.
I tear off a piece of my gown,
gently wrapping my offering in red cloth.
Turning my back to the audience,
over my left shoulder,
I toss the small bundle
like a bridal bouquet
into the black hole.
My performance is over.
The curtain falls.
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