Nyotaimori

like crown fire, like shelling,
men match our pace

into future. in that
frozen space,

I lie flagged, fixed
with animal conviction,

calculating distance
between ledge

and floor, all surface
plate of bone

flecked with smoldering
rounds. hot bowls

of shark-fin soup.
strips of minke, bryde’s,

and sei whale flesh.
at my neck,

an ancient, blooming mark.
and my vision sharp,

limbs faster than
language or argument.

I solve for lengths,
capabilities,

never not pressing off
obduracy,

curve and collapse between
sternum and hip bone.

in that room
between earth’s

shuddering mantle
and the airless flux of space,

the body takes on signifier,
a brief spoke

of detailed feast
and fraud. torsos

like carbon-rich
soil dragged

across borders
in loosening

freights,
shadows full

of razed leaves,
broken roots. he that

stepped between you
and the light

still holds his cup out
each winter,

fills it with snow.
his gamy breath pools in the air.

I dissolve alongside you
as they take up the mantle.

I don’t know, you tell me,
why I shouldn’t feel

(we walk shining, iron-lined,
wire-strung, vigilant)

they are driven by nothing
but the slow, hot crawl

of inheritance. greed. the next
war cleaves them open. I think we live

better—longer—with ourselves.
I say, it takes nothing for me

to lose their faces in my mind
before I turn my locks and sleep.