Upon Leaving His Body the Road Kill

As if it were scrotum, limp
penis, torn lip, eyelid.
Blacked infant face
bunched, gray liquid
hair sprayed
thickly along this
body. My king, my rat
pent with
joy blood burnt
on the white
concrete. I see
no tail, but toes made of ear bones. You are
a dead leaf
sweating here, where
bees dies, the cat
licks, three flies stir
slowly. Dry mouthful,
my pet, little
god, your skin and entrails
fuse a slim man's
belly balloons,
his skin
slurring like bronze
glass. Dust burns
into the bark
of trees, that
earth crumbed skin.

And those live leaves?
A few become
noses spread, broad
flat tongues, or fish
arching in the wind. Still,
my claws vanish
constantly as I run
out in every
direction.

-- published in Mangrove (2000, number 9)

Copyright Louise Robertson