JEFF BAKER

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.