← v18n1, Spring 2019
Poetry · Volume 18, Number 1

77.15 Kelvin

After her second shot the artist starts to talk about

Cryonics of all things, the initiate of her boyfriend

Who attends such conferences. . . . Freeze me, baby!

He once said to her, the height of their bodily passion.

Of all the absurd, most passionate, climactic words

Surely there are worse. One can only imagine

What jettisons between them. Twelve thousand bucks

For the brain floating in vitro, free of the scuttled

Skiff of the line-tangled body, a cool quarter mil

For the whole nine yards, every finger, toe,

As if at 77.15 kelvin we found heaven,

The boiling point of liquid nitrogen

Flushed through the xylem of each dead organ,

The bodies upright in their silver cells, some new

Hal singing “Mary Had a Little Lamb,” each eyebrow

White as snow. One by one the banks drain

The trust accounts. Ward of the frozen state

Your lifelong partner croons by the power

Of his attorney. No prince wakes you

Ever from your glass sleep, or duly waits on you,

Vigilant as a Millerite counting on some

Nineteenth-century New York hillside

The clouded arrhythmia of Christ.

The artist pours another straight up, no ice,

Figures the crystalline rapture’s a vessel

Rigged with time, scaffolds into nothingness,

Ghosted with minds.