Body Approved for Use
Part 1
Harvesting
is life
Harvesting is
rebirth
Tomato pea squash
You contain elements that were present
at the birth of the universe
A double helix
twirling
like a celebration
Minerals with sense
eyes to see
ears with which to hear
an urge and design for union
The sunlight reaches for you like a child
holding out her hand
for a toy
The garden stretches across borders and time
Your place is set, the plate is full
Part 2
CoMpleX [digital enclosure]
cutting edge of social control
High-definition video stills
of each subject’s features.
Personal data in crisp black boxes.
The yellow square surrounding the face
indicates pre-criminal.
// LOCATION TRACE CONFIRMED //
// SCAN COMPLETE //
// THREAT LEVEL: LOW //
The parameters of the policing grid.
Faceprint stored.
Voiceprint stored.
Gaitprint stored.
The unobserved life
is transgression.
A shadow cast unmeasured,
a motion without timestamp,
expression
without category
= violation.
Flag: Quran audio file detected
Flag: Arabic text in SMS
Flag: Sudden change in route
Compliance metrics exceeded
Access revoked.
Behavior modification trial initiated.
Results pending.
There are no bad algorithms—only bad data.
Part 3
My life is a sequence of signals of offense.
Some long, others short.
Slowed down, magnified.
Like a code for those who are watching.
There is no trial,
only conviction
when the sum total of my behavior
adds up to a crime.
I download WhatsApp
and send prayers in Arabic to friends,
share videos of religious leaders
extolling a life devoted to God.
Study the Qur’an, grow out my beard.
We named our granddaughter Amina.
I don’t eat pork at the factory canteen,
abstain from alcohol,
drive to the mosque at dawn on weekdays,
before work.
I miss the old days of the village turning in unison
on the wheel of prayer.
We use a VPN to watch Turkish soap operas.
I’m ignorant of the laws written in secret
and obscured by authority.
There is no God but—
Part 4
Handcuffed, shackled, hooded.
There’s a bucket in the corner.
That’s where you shit,
bitch.
Baotou, baotou.
I’m beaten on my backside by a cane
1.5 meters in length.
Forced to sit all day on a plastic stool.
Straight as the cane.
They push it into our backs,
strike our heads.
Don’t speak.
Your language is the enemy.
Baotou, baotou, bitch.
Head like a pig.
Centralized Controlled Education Center.
The elderly
lose their intestines.
The IUD implanted by the state dislodges.
I bleed
but never menstruate.
Misuse of state property is an offense.
Piss in the bucket, pig.
Baotou, baotou.
Closing your eyes to the light is a crime
never stop looking at the light
on the ceiling under the floor
in the corners.
You in the light stupid sow bitch are the crime.
Stand in the camera at all times.
Baotou, baotou.
The guard wears electric gloves,
touches me all over my body,
under my arms, between my legs.
I can’t hold my newborn’s hand.
No longer live in myself.
Even women get the Tiger Chair.
I’m scared.
Mama,
mama.
Part 5
At the top of the hill in the dark
graves line up like furrows
where you’d pull weeds
or walk slowly, eyes out for snails
to pluck from the stems
and feed to your cat later.
A bullet
fired from a single rifle
impacts the right side of my chest.
It’s imperative the heart is not struck—
to ensure my body’s organs
have a continuous supply of oxygen.
The suddenness and shock
act as a kind of anesthesia.
Or so it is said.
I do not stop living.
Men from trucks painted with crosses
incise my body
and accept the harvest.
I stop walking
so another man can continue.
Kidneys,
liver,
heart,
corneas.
Soon, a use for my bones.
An altar
waits to be built
under the dirt.
My head and legs
spasm and twitch.
The cross
is the universal symbol
of mercy and aid.
A festival of fertility and fruition.
Demeter is honored,
Hou Tu,
Pachamama.
The offering
is universal.
I give myself
as food
for the State.
jms xuange writes poems concerned with the body under authority, systems of belief, and the uses to which human life is put. Her work often moves between mythic language and institutional speech, attending to the points where devotion, surveillance, and power converge. She lives quietly and publishes infrequently.