Jen ties me to her hand, head against
the middle finger tip, left hand
to ring finger, right hand to index. I admit it:
it’s comfortable. At my back
the low-sung blood and the warmth
of a bed one has just left, and to which
one will soon gratefully return.
In a perfect world… but this is
the perfect world, where everything
has its reason in its time, everything
happens for a reason, and God exists
because we need God to exist.
On Saturday, when we were dying,
when people took flight, they were Raptured
right out of their shoes by the force
of mass times acceleration.
You could see the path the car took
by the trail of shoes left behind
if you weren’t already seeing it
every time you closed your eyes.
Tonight, Jen lays her hand lightly
on her stomach and breathes deeply
and I listen to the seas of the moon.
Mare Serenitatis: I do not remember
being struck by a rocketing Nike,
so I certainly do not know
that my carotid artery was dissected twice.
Jen sits up and now I find myself
slowly brushed along the inside of her calf
from ankle to knee, each hair reaching
after me like a lover left at the gate.
Mare Spumans: I do not know
that clots formed there, I do not know
that I have turned my head just so
and that they have come loose. All I know
at this perfect moment in the perfect world
is that I am upside down and ferried
up Jen’s inner thigh along the slow-surfacing tendon.
Mare Marginis: And no, I do not know,
thank you very much, that my smallest arteries,
such as those in my brain, are insane.
I do not know that they wind and craze
like cracks in a stone-struck windshield.
But I know that I am flying
on a warm inverted magic carpet
up along Jen’s body. Over hillock
and plain. Soft range. Her smile.
Mare Crisium: as the clots
bury themselves in the channels
of unnamed arteries, as blood
no longer, flows. To certain areas
of my cortex. She says:
I love you. To which. I respond:
Mare Necessitatum.
Mare Evanescentiae.
Mare Relinquens.
Mare Finium.
Size Writes 