series title as well as all fic titles within come from "speeches for dr. frankenstein" by margaret atwood.
if you would like to read the poem in full (with bold around the sources of each title), click below the cut here:
I.
I, the performer
in the tense arena, glittered
under the fluorescent moon. Was bent
masked by the table. Saw what focused
my intent: the emptiness
The air filled with an ether of cheers.
My wrist extended a scalpel.
II.
The table is a flat void,
barren as total freedom. Though behold
A sharp twist
like taking a jar top off
and it is a living
skeleton, mine, round,
that lies on the plate before me
red as a pomegranate,
every cell a hot light.
III.
I circle, confront
my opponent. The thing
refuses to be shaped, it moves
like yeast. I thrust,
the thing fights back.
It dissolves, growls, grows crude claws;
The air is dusty with blood.
It springs. I cut
with delicate precision.
The specimens
ranged on the shelves, applaud.
The thing falls Thud. A cat
anatomized.
O secret
form of the heart, now I have you.
IV.
Now I shall ornament you.
What would you like?
Baroque scrolls on your ankles?
A silver navel?
I am the universal weaver;
I have eight fingers.
I complicate you;
I surround you with intricate ropes.
What web shall I wrap you in?
Gradually I pin you down.
What caution shall
I carve and seal in your skull?
What size will I make you?
Where should I put your eyes?
V.
I was insane with skill:
I made you perfect.
I should have chosen instead
to curl you small as a seed,
trusted beginnings. Now I wince
before this plateful of results:
core and rind, the flesh between
already turning rotten.
I stand in the presence
of the destroyed god:
a rubble of tendons,
knuckles and raw sinews.
Knowing that the work is mine
how can I love you?
These archives of potential
time exude fear like a smell.
VI.
You arise, larval
and shrouded in the flesh I gave you;
I, who have no covering
left but a white cloth skin
escape from you. You are red,
you are human and distorted.
You have been starved,
you are hungry. I have nothing to feed you.
I pull around me, running,
a cape of rain.
What was my ravenous motive?
Why did I make you?
VII.
Reflection, you have stolen
everything you needed:
my joy, my ability
to suffer.
You have transmuted
yourself to me: I am
a vestige, I am numb.
Now you accuse me of murder.
Can’t you see
I am incapable?
Blood of my brain,
it is you who have killed these people.
VIII.
Since I dared
to attempt impious wonders
I must pursue
that animal I once denied
was mine.
Over this vacant winter
plain, the sky is a black shell;
I move within it, a cold
kernel of pain.
I scratch huge rescue messages
on the solid
snow; in vain. My heart’s
husk is a stomach. I am its food.
IX.
The sparkling monster
gambols there ahead,
his mane electric:
This is his true place.
He dances in spirals on the ice,
his clawed feet
kindling shaggy fires.
His happiness
is now the chase itself:
he traces it in light,
his paths contain it.
I am the gaunt hunter
necessary for his patterns,
lurking, gnawing leather.
X.
The creature, his arctic hackles
bristling, spreads
over the dark ceiling,
his paws on the horizons,
rolling the world like a snowball.
He glows and says:
Doctor, my shadow
shivering on the table,
you dangle on the leash
of your own longing;
your need grows teeth.
You sliced me loose
and said it was
Creation. I could feel the knife.
Now you would like to heal
that chasm in your side,
but I recede. I prowl.
I will not come when you call.
