The last thing I drank was clear.
The number of times I’ve had
to repeat this reproduces, every
anesthesiologist preparing for
vomit, I guess. My apologies —
I did not mean to spit that out,
start your day with such a gross
sort of showering, you alongside
me, half naked on a frigid table,
foaming like a geyser’s mouth.
I meant to say something more
profound, poetic, give you a
peaceful tributary of words,
a transparent shallow that,
if you sit still in it long enough,
you hardly feel anything but
weightless. Yet everything known
erupts from it: ripples, polliwogs,
mud skippers, algae, iron, and salt,
the much argued primordial ooze
we think long ago might have made
us humans. Instead…I’m discussing
puke. But even that comes from
what I last drank, derivative of
placenta and womb, we who are more
than fifty-percent liquid, yet we move
through life like we’re solid. As if we’re
matter. Like we can’t evaporate.
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