They set the chairs up in a half moon shape facing the instructor who tells us to close our eyes and guides us through the meditation. One woman describes her cord cutting as seppuku– she's doesn't look Asian so I think this might be appropriation, but I don't ask her about her heritage because she's already spilled her guts. Another woman, who is wearing a tired leather jacket over her cropped lululemon set describes black waxed twine, wrapped around her heart, and she had to make millions of cuts to free herself from all the knots. I am still unraveling the blood-stained silk from my lungs when it's my turn– the fabric used to be ballet ivory, and as I peel it away from my organs the pressure increases, and it feels like I'm breathing underwater. I frantically cut pieces to free myself, and when I look up I'm ready to share the ribbon with the room, beg these women to take a piece, but they’re no longer with me. They’re relieved. They're free. I nod, paper mache my chest back together, knowing that when it dries it will be tighter than ever before.
Amanda Stopa Goldstein is a poet and short fiction writer. Her work has been recently published or is forthcoming in Cherry Tree, Two Thirds North, and Epiphany.