3rd
“Watering Hole” part 3
I wake and my bound mind is a vegetable. On its own: cold.
Later at mass, otherwise, but like a sun-dried skull in a buzzard’s belly,
It shivers under its warm coat of mold,
Even as we conspire in our prayers the prospect of cooking it anyway.
The possibility that it can’t make it through to spring
Without some new knife skinning it of its hide
Is hard to bear, even for a seedpod drying and yet unscattering,
For some reason too hard to not cut gem fruit love.
I remember when you picked it up anyway and brushed off half its slough,
Said, “This one’s tired today,”
And found a brewer who’d take the pomace.
This was when things really turned around for us.
We crafted a practical nozzle, and with the new distillation
Blasted our limbs free of eschar. “Sand down my hipbones,” I said.
“Scientists will cast the powder into a cheekbone for you.”
Now, as your mouth narrows to a purse, the tube of your throat extends.
You sing higher; the audience giggles. You make a funny sound forever; the audience
And you can choke together. We dip in a narrow vat of chewed and spat merriment.
Together, at least, we’ll keep it warm for another hour, until you draw the bath again.
Pay attention, though, you’re not really done learning from this drunk.
Where once only possibility shone, the limning force pulls away
And boxes of sandbags for weighing up the flying monks
Become the centerfold, the business end, and the money shot.
