Petra Kuppers

Court Theater*

I thank the bowl of my hips
I thank the soft edges of my skull
my sternum, big bone presses down
my liver wraps itself around and breathes out toxic
smooth wood and green upholstery
butts butts butts hair and really dark clothes
raised dais at the far end
she calls them to her, conferral, you do not know what is going on
there is code and negotiation
                                                                        How will you begin?
woman with big silver chains over a lilac patterned blouse gestures
man speaks low, tie straight down and sharp
bewildered clients stare straight ahead
no one looks around no one looks around
                                                                        Was the performance in line with or a departure
                                                                        from what you experienced?
he pressed down there, and over, the muscles strain
liquid darker this hurts, he does not care and presses, inches
note the finger down and into tender
my breasts mine again now really
spots sore inside bruises
not for any hospital
telephone chains, survivor language, note to speak note
police station marble floor echoes when I make my report
through a window above my head, glassed in, booms
instead suspicion
                                                                        <What happened then?
massage action
I can barely remember now
‘are you sure you did not ask for it'
                                                                                                No. I did not ask
my breast felt, bruised, squeezed hard
fibers spring out of their sockets
shape new contours
body I do not know
I did not ask for that. Why did I not run when I swat away
his hands. Naked. My wheelchair outside. I can't run. I am bound
to these words,
my neck bristles, right now, I write down
these glimpses of memory
words I remember dredging up
for the police woman,
the guy at the station, the man in the suit,
                                                                        How did the site influence your performance?
The prosecutor in the courthouse.
The corridor.
Outside the bathroom,
consultation, ties, high heels. Tell me what you know about dismemberment.
No. Tight band across
my breasts, still, never really quite back
into their shape,
the life tenderness, ruptured jelly capsules,
no, I won't go to the hospital, either,
take your hands away now,
take your words away,
your stories of what is
right for massage, and who asks for what,
happy ending jokes,
vulnerable wheelchairs,
the cripple in the waiting room,
who sits on the seats of the court house.
We sit here, legs crossed. She sits. He sits.
We hear stories of robberies.
Is your client pleading
                                                                        What was it like for you to see what you said
through another person's body?
I am pleading to let me out,
let go of my nipples, to stop,
no, I can hardly feel where the hand goes,
around my pubic bone, my leg joint,
femur cracks in its orbit,
there was a hand there, and fingers,
where did the defendant place his hand, exactly,
my senses layer and story
we wheel into the courthouse and I swat away sensation and the pressure the pressure the blood comes to the surface again, and prickles in my neck hairs upright, and ‘this is a classic PTSD episode,' she says, watch the light go and go and go and go and No. I say, I know I said that, and I repeat it, and you better listen to me, man tie, ‘she is the ideal victim,' I repeat
what I said just right,
                                                                        Did your partner's words affect your body? If so, how?
just exactly, just smooth the way
into the courtroom where we all sit
the lights are on overhead right now
he sits right in front of me,
two rows up, I can see the back of his head,
I do not want to see his face again, ever.
I hold my breasts, my hands cross over.
Skin soft and red, rooted,
breathe into the sternum, deepen, flat,
amulet and a band. Velvet soft green bone.
I thank the fascia snapping back into place.
I thank the blood that is new and red and
can't remember where it went
what it colored. I thank the lungs
                                                                        Did the performance open up another way for you
to see your own language?
breathe and heave and it's been a year
my kidneys are breathing
it's ok to be thankful and
no, this is not therapy.
                                                                        What are the consequences of silence?
this is a fucking

*Poet's note: As an artist, I work interdependently, and I make use of artful support: in this poem, I cite lines from fellow queercrip dancer Marissa Perel's performance experiments and from experimental writer and bodyworker Bhanu Kapil's interviews from The Vertical Interrogation of Strangers (2001). These seeds point outside of the cage of my memories to art and performance as wayfarers, embedment and community.