The purple plant of abstinence
grows in the murky shade
gnaws at the caterpillar
with its thorny teeth
and snarls at its mealy flesh
noli me tangere
as if to crawl along its spiny hands
the index finger stained with negatives
were death, the sour wash of corpses
circling down the winding drain
that rusty compass of our being
like the one I used in my geometry
and still the nurse insists you fill
the questionnaire up to the brim
and drink its bitterness
its litany of failure and disease
and on the last page
turn the other cheek
there you will leave your liver
limbs, an eyelid or a cornea
but save the heart, its ventricles
its bloody passions and its tricks
for me, in case one afternoon
I should desire it
—question not the need—
who does not tremble at
the heartlessness here
where we thrive and live?
Now, when the rhododendron
is in fuchsia bloom
and earlier than the season
fireflies are glistening among the trees
and from the darkness bullfrogs sound
their ancient throbbing from a distant pond
I linger in the moonlight and its rays
give substance to my shadow
and my body shape.
