On the horizon, I hurried to the bridge
that hangs by the edges of drooping ferns
above eeling riverweeds. Silhouettes
blurred and shrinking like shadow, blowing
small shotguns of breath across
firefilled cups of sleepytime tea. Twenty
patient breezes swarmed through your teeth, but
all those minutes of steeping still raked raw the muscle,
ballooned at first with heat,
now swollen, blocking your throat.
I chopsticked your ears and eyeballs off
easily as tender meat off the bone and
stirred them in as sugar cubes. Finally,
dissolved, you sitting patiently in my palm,
tea is cool enough to sip. You eased in up to
ankles, testing the waters, then dipped in
your calves, got your hair wet,
and after a few scissor kicks against the ceramic,
went right down my esophagus.