When I was a kid
a man came to town in a Lincoln hat,
sawed a woman in half
in a box with her feet sticking out
then glued her back together
by magic we all believed
except bloody-faced Sonja Reed
who ran out gagging like I am right now
driving away from you
listening to an interview with Arthur Benjamin Gross
one week after he was pulled into a thirty inch ripsaw
& sliced nearly in half, ribs to pelvis–
The most stitched up man in the world
the reporter muses while the doctor says
he can’t begin to estimate how many stitches
since when he arrived by helicopter
his stomach was hanging out
blood pouring from each half
of this man, Mr. Gross, who says
I’m glad it was nearly dark or I might’ve fainted
like I will right now if I don’t stop listening
to this reporter’s strip mining the slash,
her wet fingers recounting
each stitch of this Ripley’s record,
asking Mr. Gross how it feels
to be cut in half then rejoined
by a doctor who never saw
Anything this messy my whole time in Korea
who wonders why he didn’t bleed to death
or come unhinged like I am right now
as I turn the channel to hard rock
& pull off the road lathered
as if the wound itself is closing over me
& I can’t get both halves
back in the magic box
before my toes stop wiggling.