I forget how to render myself
in attachment to the world.

Taking a selfie in the hospital mirror
in case I, you know, die.
A final photograph of me
being painfully morose.

I admit I got really corny this time
about my body being a vessel.
You got me, God. I thought
you were serious.

Like, I was really about to
kit out that boat,
put a uterus in my uterus
just to have an extra one for show.

Landlocked now
in the high grass of death
walled in by the panic of cicadas

I let rain trample me flat
as a cluster of ditch lilies
while I breathe in
the recommended exhaust.

Anesthesia sloughs off my skin
so a forge of white heat
can shine up my skeleton,
making me new.

As that fucker Ezra Pound insisted.

Show me violence
and suddenly I’m all aesthetic.

Here’s that pain you ordered,
artisanal, perfect.

Leaving blood on the page
as directed. Not red, but
crimson, scarlet. You like it?

Great, you can keep it
sharp. Observe me closely.

Looking gorgeously dead inside.

Letting moonlight hit me
like a night-blooming rose.