Three Fluid Graces

Moon is wearing

someone’s polished skull

like a pith helmet—

this is when

we come to change

the pan of tears,

when we pull

body after body

from the reservoir.

Here is your

tongue, your claws,

steam which knocks

the pipes in

your chest. Here

are the wires to lace

your sternum shut,

cables for the pulleys

in your shoulder blades—

power lines

where your legs dead-

end at the crotch.

There will still be time

for a quick nap

in the gurney factory . . .

Dumb creature, we

kneel and wash you

with spit.