Towards the Night-Chef
A salmon fish returns to the exact place it was born to give birth,
and the red beady colour of it’s eggs occurred to me as I died.
I thought of your penis too. How remarkably well formed it is,
like the coloured eggs, I thought as I released my death like a moon.
I didn’t mind all that gel-blood and air running from the body,
joining that drum and the soil and the skinlessness on their way with me.
I called out to Google. But it was not Google, it was a Night-Chef.
He is the votive for the un-died. Always frowning always shifting a little.
I said hello and I took out one of your mother’s rugs from inside me,
along with the sound of your big breaths between throat bones at night.
But the Night-Chef said I should give it a rest:
“Let it wane!” he said, but I couldn’t. So he showed me how to reach for it;
towards and through the ceiling and bed and lowering through gradients of air
putting my skin on and noisy veins, back inside flesh like deaths blood-wild surface,
and then again there was the fight was you and the everyone,
and all that weight of the body, left.