They Will Sew the Blue Sail

Tío, Post–Autopsy | Dominique Salas

Mortician’s knit—1—purl—2 climbs

temple to temple:

slippery threading closing a parted

peony & poppy brain, giggling

still. Beneath a red

handkerchief, waxen eyes,

pronounced floppy eye

lashes. My cartoon fox

trounced with a delicious anvil,

metallic kiss to vein. Absence of a movable

mercury mouth, quiet won over. Wrists

in line & bones never more

connected. Wait. I should brace

to realize the lax-sewn valley between

scrubbed nipples. Someone’s heart

was excavated & weighed today for

the first time, not-echoing, on

metal. The blisterlight resounds secular &

sops up corners, maybe eyes.