Excavation

Excavation

Elisa Johnston

Unseen whispers
Come, sift through me
Beyond dreams,
In and through
The muggy zones

Where time is erased
The ancient spectre forms
Finding gems and specimens
Or, even putrid stones
To pick up and observe

Rub off crusted earth!
Take chisel to my open heart
Peer within; I am a canvas bag
Filter the contents before they are tagged
And categorize what’s meant to be flagged

My heart, it hammers!
My ears ring loud!
Folding in like origami
My words sound foul--
Am I puffed, am I proud?

In defense, I rupture
My stomach makes me sick
These broken pieces hold me
Till my tears are thick

And so these raw rocks and gems
Line a stainless steel slab
The examen begins.
The curator pauses to listen
Pointing his finger

I am letting him lead
This uncovered exhibition
Where his ghost researches me.

He brushes off the crustiness
I hear it in his whisper,
Coaxing me nearer
Raising his eyebrows
Speaking, “This one here”

His Spirit says it all
Doesn’t need vocalization
To unbury the things
Covered up
Left behind

Evidence of old mawlings
Fossils of hurt;
He just rips them up
But even still gently, for
He knows that to me they are dear

His presence will be beyond the end
Claiming, “This is finished”
Giving me the courage
To clear out ancient oozing wounds
After shrapnel ripped through me.

“You’ll forgive;” He claims,
“Even forget,” assures
Together, we’ll shoot monsters in their backs
There on the frigid metal they’ll disintegrate
Then he’ll return what’s of value to its rightful place.

A reverse autopsy
Gems placed back in and in order
A healing “Y” over my heart stitched up tight
Then a shock to my system
Sucking in, I come alive

And now it is I
Walking out the double doors
From this surgery;
The whispered excavation.

---

Elisa Johnston
Poet & Advocate

Photography by Max Neustaedter