Cut the Strings

Cut the Strings

(“Yet God knows every step I take; if he tests me, he will find me pure.” Job 23:10)

I should have researched this bit before I wrote, and, if I rewrite,
perhaps I will;
but what is it they call the strings by which they machine marionettes,
and what are they made of; what fiber, what source? Plant, like hemp
or linen?
Animal, like sheep gut? Or a manufactured blend, rayon, cotton and
spandex for stretch?

It does not matter much, except for the words I might have used
to describe
the life
of the girl with strings attached to every joint, every limb, her
several fingers and several toes. Without the slightest knowledge,
no hints or shadows upon the wall, her moves were less human
than she ever imagined. Yet, human to the core, the subtle
resistance of muscle against the tugging of string
produced the tiniest blisters, imperceptible stings over
years of performing the dance of the puppeteer’s perfection.

Once or twice, looking over her shoulder, she thought she caught
a breath, a change of wind from outside her body. Most assured her,
some remonstrated her hallucination, most carried on the
dance of the puppeteer’s perfection.

Days were tossed without second thoughts, nights were slept
with annoying plots that seeped into sundial perception;
a slow blend of reverie and real. She put up with what
she never saw.

Until she was set aside, strings untied and hanging on the wall,
dark and light were just the same, night and day were unacquainted.
Ashamed and cast off in the attic above the garage, her dreams
and her daytime reflections tugged for power over which
would oversee an
unfeigned sanity.

That is when, between dream and waking, she heard the crack,
the boxed thunder of a mighty limb, old and weighed down,
finally falling from tree to ground. She knew the truth,
sorely hidden, that was the moment, her brain broke
literally.

She ran the race of paranoia, seeing puppeteers in each
grain of sand. She grabbed only one hand, her own, with
thoughts still vying for competence.

Slowing as she ran, as she ran out, as she ran out of breath,
the knots which were knit upon each joint and limb
were more familiar than her own name. They were
her making,
puppet and puppeteer, she ran, and ran herself down
the same.

The strings we hate; attached to people’s words now gone,
are strings we tied to a passing glance on one day,
a smiling invitation the next, a trial, a conviction,
an inscription on our skin left by leather applied
when our conniption fits would not subside. The strings
we hate

Are enough to write the definition across our brow.

With no sign of reliance, we can stand or dance,
unenhanced by performance or perfection,
the simple human dance, resurrected messy and late

We are better unstringed and sometimes unhinged.