The Body

Tim McLafferty

The body: tell ‘em about the body.
It hurts, that’s all—the work, the water, then sleep
when they come crying—window cracked, cold air, sprung beams
they come, say float—something wants in, something

out—dog dreams flight, tendons pull, a knee, a hand
soft, warm, pressed down; it says
I’d want it in Hell, why wouldn’t I want it here:
that drop for my tongue? Oh, the water knows it was.

This bone grinds that, it ain’t right; well you asked.
Yes, but I didn’t say I’d listen to your bone,
it’s water I’m after: one says river
one says drop—it’s one, though, isn’t it

that current we carry, held not kept
now there’s a symbol for you and your bones.