Brian Clements


Some time ago, your left wrist
turned over and revealed itself
my retractable clamp; your right
took the monk’s robe.
Your throat opened, and sparrows
nested below my jaw;
there my tongue flaps, two chicks.
When your eyes x-ed out,
I plugged flashbulbs into the sockets;
now my dreams strobe
like gunfire in the dark.
I feel you there wandering the Cartesian
Theater, bon voyageing your ears,
where headphones like an alien
transponder now play. These feet
of clay only resemble their past
incarnation as holdfast of a home;
those are stones that were
your knees, and of plywood
are your ankles made. The ark
of your belly—a shed where I put
everything I’d rather not say.
I’ve built a railroad where your shoulders were,
and, in place of your liver,
a spider’s nest. Your head swivels
on a surveyor’s compass, and at the center
of your chest, a bag of Epsom.
I have preserved all of these pieces
in the normal places where people have
their human things, so that someday,
when we’re over it all,
you can sit next to me in the dark
and put what is left of you
in the shape of a hand
into my 100% real-life,
warm and loving hand.

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