Analysis

In this story the cockroach is the man,

the curtain my girlhood, the creamed

corn spilled by the mother wasted

familial love, the father's zealotry

a metaphor for emotional blindness.

In this story the radioactive dinosaur

is the man, the city of Tokyo my body,

and the metro tunnel, well, you know.

Fire is fire. Explosions are explosions.

The snow-capped summit of Mount Fuji

signifies faith's chilly endurance.

A facet of the man is represented by

each of the three Magi in this story.

Do not accept his gifts. It's an honest

mistake to assume I'm the Baby

Jesus, but let's face it, I'm the slut,

Mary, whom no one believes

is a virgin, especially not the man.

Gothic romance man owns a mansion

with a special tap for instant boiling

water and acres of heated tile floor.

I'm the maid who scrubs the floor

and sometimes has her hand held

under the tap. The crazy woman

in the attic is me. The horse that won't

be broken is me. The intergenerational

family curse is me. The pig the man

whips for being pig-like is me.

In this story the man is the man

and I am me. His penis is his penis

and my mouth, my mouth. The bed

is my childhood bed, the guest room

bed, the bed in my college dorm

and the futon in my first apartment.

The parents watching TV are my parents,

and the thin scar on my thumb,

the thumb I am showing you now,

is where he sliced me with a razor

to prove he could open me at will.

Copyright Credit: Nancy Lee, "Analysis" from What Hurts Going Down. Copyright © 2020 by Nancy Lee. Reprinted by permission of McClelland & Stewart, Ltd., a division of Penguin Random House Canada Limited. All rights reserved.

Source: What Hurts Going Down (McClelland & Stewart, Ltd., 2020)