I like to play this game where I cut open my husband’s chest. Finger scissors to sternum: snip, snip. I grab the flaps of his skin and splay them open, push myself in headfirst. It’s not enough to sit in his chest cavity. I shrink until I’m small enough to take a ride on his bloodstream, float red cell rafts into his heart. Inside, I bounce around the four chambers like a kid on a tramp-o-line. Sweep my legs out in front of me and land on my tail-bone, then spring back, pedaling right-left-right. And when I’m good and tired from my splits and flips, I slip through the mitral valve, into the richest corner. Lie back, arms open, and take gasping gulps of blood. Spread and squish my toes through the platelets. Run them down his arterial walls. I could stay awhile. Head on his shoulder, head on his ventricle. Breathing plasma and eating erythrocytes.
Yes, yes, it’s only a joke. I’ve no real desire to slice and skin. It just seems like a good place to be. To approach his desk, straddle his lap, and press my forehead to his breastbone. Let me in there, I say. I need to swim.
Photo By: sharyn morrow
