The Spirit Leaves the Body a Bottle

Lord, I meant to be golden, waxwinged,

carrying a branch in my mouth.

But all this spout knows how to do

is drink in: bitter days, faces of people

I’ve chipped away, in all of their complexities,

until their ghosts clink and roll on uneven tile.

Freckles fallen on the ground around

my body, swimming in the rivers of the unconscious.

The first time I burnt a house down

I felt pleasure, an undeniable feeling

I wanted to last forever, so I swallowed it,

capped it, warmed it with my hand

on my stomach, rubbing in a circular motion.

I liked the taste of ash, and like with all desires,

took too big a swig. When I am outside my body,

I stare down a toilet bowl and watch my feet

fail to dolphin-kick away from the gushing.

My gills oozing eighty-proof nothings,

a substance that will taste like heaven

but like heaven, always leave something

to be desired. The spirit leaves the body

a bottle. The body will never be full

so it begs for growth. Another.

My chinampas still hiding. My temple

not yet constructed. My canned

Atlantis. Further. The body

will never be whole.