C. C. Rayne
THE CARTOGRAPHY OF BODIES
1. Heir Apparent
You have read tarot every day
since you started doubting
the body you were born to,
the titles you are tied to,
the smile stuck on your mouth.
Every day since you started wishing
you were a king instead. And every day,
you draw the Hanged Man.
The hunt brings back a fresh stag.
You smile prettily and slice it open.
The knife is heavy in your hand.
The blood is blotted from the table
before it soaks your blue dress.
You cannot eat red meat. They say
it is not fit for a queen. They say
it will not strengthen her heart.
All your banquets are held
in the crypt of your castle.
You want to rip out your heart.
They place your deer
in the center of the table,
make a monument of his rib cage.
White pillars curve upwards,
cup careful-cut meat between them.
And you must sit and watch
yourself eat yourself whole,
gnaw your flesh from your bone.
And you must hear
how far these men voyaged
to find a beast worthy of your knife.
The crypt closes in.
You long for light.
Light to change your life.
Light to burn their eyes.
Golden-bright-white to scrub
every landmark from their minds.
II. Heir Presumptive
On a sunny day,
you climb your tower,
shed skirts and petticoats,
that puddle round your ankles,
the same blue as the noon-high sky,
take the knife to the knot of hair
at the nape of your neck,
smear the red from your lips.
Then, dressed properly, you hang
your knees over battlements, drape
yourself down the brickwork,
outstretch your arms,
relax, feel right: calm, flying. Crucified.
Thus, the Hanged Man:
You are trapped at a crossroads and
you know not what to do.
You must step outside of yourself.
Upside-down, the world
looks right again,
and the cartography of bodies
no longer rules.
you no longer rule.
You are in charge of nothing -
You are known as nothing.
Just beating heart
and bright light;
bones and blood.
III. Abdication
When you finally run away,
you are not hanged.
But you are a man.
Smile fearsome, made
from meat and razor ribs.
Blood, without propriety.
The kingdom falls,
yet you become a king.
You practice the spyglass,
the compass and the map.
No one can find you,
till you find yourself.
You voyage.
You hold your blade, inverted.
You cut ropes that once bound you.
Sunlight melts you –
remakes you, strong and new.
You temper like steel; soft linen
billows from your towers,
blows welcomes in the wind.
You devour the world,
in place of yourself.
Be unmade.
Hold iron sway o’er how you are portrayed.
Draw no more cards.
C. C. Rayne is an author of the weird, wonderful, and queer. C. C.'s works have been nominated for the Pushcart Prize and the Best Small Microfictions award. You can read more of C. C.'s poetry in places such as Heartlines Spec, Rough Cut Press, Eye To The Telescope, and Strange Horizons. You can read more of C. C.'s stories in places such as The Deeps, The Razor, HAD, JAKE, and Demons & Death Drops.