Sheep’s Brain
BIO
Teo Mungaray is a queer, chronically ill, latinx poet. He holds an MFA from Pacific University of Oregon and is pursuing his doctorate at the University of Nebraska-Lincoln. He is a co-founder and co-EIC of Cotton Xenomorph. His poems have recently appeared in or are forthcoming from Waxwing, The Shade Journal, Drunk Monkeys, Sycamore Review, and Birdfeast. He has a cat named Lysistrata.
In biology, we dissected a sheep’s brain
preserved in formaldehyde. The stench
of the chemical made me gag while,
scalpel in hand, I sliced through the cerebral fissure,
divided the brain into two hemispheres,
so we could identify the lobes, glands, places
of scientific inquiry. I remember plucking out
the pea-sized pituitary, being told my cuts
were clean, that I owed my skill to my skill
in the kitchen, as if the cuts I made were
for a meal, as if we were doing more
than playing a game of make-believe scientists.
I suppose that’s why I was handed the scalpel.
I was the one who curled my fingers
over the lobe like an onion, and made the long,
terrible lines through the bleach-white organ.
Despite the smell, I was one of the few
that could handle the task, not make a joke of it.
The other boys stabbed at the oddly firm tissue,
punching ragged holes with the dull side of the blade
and the girls turned away, squealing, acting out
their roles perfectly. I was humorless, as humorless
as I was when I peeled the membranes
from veal pancreases, soaked them overnight in milk,
fried them for dinner. It was all necessary work to me,
to make good the innards of the dead. So,
I suppose my teacher was right: I had many hours
over a cutting board, knife in hand, to thank
for such beautiful halves of a sheep’s brain,
two elegant halves torn apart by curiosity.
Worship
You can kneel anywhere
and make a shrine of it,
as long as there is room to kneel.
I don’t believe in god
but other forms of worship,
which are nothing more than dedication.
I have spent hours in the house of a man
who, like any benevolent god,
must mark his benevolence
by meting out punishment
on the Wicked. And I am the Wicked.
I have been the Wicked for so long
it has become my name.
Touch-Starved
Seven months ago, someone told me
I was unkind to myself, that I was touch-starved,
that it was ok to ask to be held. I know this is true,
just as I know how the moth feels about his light.
We both know what is light is not light alone – no light
without heat. This is not a poem about moths and flames
or ugly creatures fluttering around their fatalistic tendencies.
The moth knows what happens – bears witness to the others
dropping from the air like heavy feathers full of dust. The moth
isn’t here because of an attraction, but hunger,
unbearable lack of nectar, unbearable thirst for the pentecostal vision.
The moth burns his hands holding the light. The wicked
inherit light with pain – the wicked, with their capes of scales,
finally turning to a salvation that cuts across their eyes.
Listen, the moth isn’t turning to light for fascination,
for untamable curiosity. The moth is desperate
as I am desperate, burning: How do I ask you to touch me?