Where’d My Uterus
Go?
with all those lingering falling down
factories, that sad used up city,
and of course Michael Moore
is there, patron of
like an angry maternal deity
persistently knocking
at the gate of the still-born nation, the corporation,
his heroic face in the window, his sincere heart fat
with is own secret hoard
of uninterviewed, uninvestigated
complicities.
Or how about, even weirder, that scary
Himalayan tower,
has gone.
to warrant even a normally
lyrical name, just a number and a letter, points on a map
relative to other
points on a map. Or maybe Mount Everest,
oxygenless, the wind always slicing away just a little
portion of its peak, like mind sheering
off, thoughts off to
or anyplace sane, meaning warm,
probably in fact getting nowhere, dissolving in the dangerous heights,
but launching forth anyway, always just stepping free
of the ground.
That’s enough, don't you think?
Because we’re modest. We only ask that life
be intense, even lethal, in its instant.
2.
Whacked on morphine, I asked my doctor,
"Can I take it home?"
My sister wants to know where they put it.
The elemental
triangle. Mythologized and feared,
worshipped and detested. I have an all-new lack.
I’m incomplete as usual, sure,
but deeper in, and rounder out.
of matter called dark, like in space.
I have an inexplicable
empty fullness
at my core, which can’t be seen or otherwise detected,
but which nonetheless exerts a gravitational pull,
or so the astronomers say. How stupid of those brainy
men, for so many years,
to think that the visible
part of the universe
was all that was
there. These days they study
the microscopic evidence
of mica, they go deep underground
to figure out what the hell
is way up there, out there,
which is here, where we are,
which is: I don’t know where.
My doctor explained
that all my remaining, surrounding organs
would jostle a bit for a while, then settle
into new positions.
*
I do, for some reason, imagine it flying. Escaped
from some no-doubt disgusting back bin
where all the deleted and expurgated organs
get incinerated
or compressed. Sick kidneys and impossible hearts.
The mystical appendix. The wings of lungs.
A natty tooth in the dirt.
What’s there when even nothing is gone?
But I shouldn’t say it was nothing. It was a lush
bed, certain times of the month. It was a lunar
module.
Yes, I’m sure. It feels right at home
in the sky. I bet it’s even thinking: what better time, after all,
to relax and be nothing, or at last do some traveling,
see the universe?