Dennis MH ary inrichsen Moycik

this is my Da Vinci face— for I am saved, the cancer smuggled out of me

golden—

like purloined gems, pieces of obsidian since the thought of it cools like that. All the way to thirty angstroms, thinness of a surgeon’s blade. The wounds healing quicker for how pure the cuts. They glyph me now like slots for un-minted coins. Something fatter than a quarter but not quite a Kennedy half. Four sweet mouths singing fortune. Where they dropped the camera in, an almost human shape —size of a safety match—close cover before striking— burn at the tip of the cable. The inside of my body— I have the photo— like a cave

Crab Creek Review

69

Mennis D ary MH oycik inrichsen or deep sea cavern. Scrim of fascia they had to snip through to expose volcanic fire—that plump organ— prostate—smeared with cave art, badly drawn bison, rib-work of an angel’s wing. The cell code written over, sugared to madness, fracture. My madness, my fracture. The plug of it— size of a hummingbird’s nest—lifted out of my body and carried to where? Egg shells cracked. Hatchlings no bigger than a dime, born with eyes pinched tight—unfeathered, uncured— now blurs in the trees. How they rocket out of shadow with gold on the wing, silver if the day is dying, and there is a man there with a book in his hand, or pen in his hand, 70

Crab Creek Review

Dennis MH ary inrichsen Moycik or nothing, saying, nectar (death overcoming, death passing through) watching them sip—these little gods— thinking, if he could will it, he could stand and walk among them, blow beautiful dust into the palm of his hand and scar the air.

Crab Creek Review

71