I take a train to the moon and sunbathe
in its lunar seas, wringing sodium out of gills,
pleading for a gentler revolution. Before me
are rivers of cosmoid scales — the ruins of
dead fish, extinct fish, regretting fish —
as if stasis dipped into motion & urged them
to stop swimming and herald evolution.
Here, the earth is quiet. Here, mortality passes me by.
I wonder if they will call me moon goddess; if I will
chisel away a past life with carving knives
and grieving. Brownian motion, vertigo; stay steady:
the body is a hearth of hurts that refuse to heal. Fossilized,
torn ligaments never mend but replaster and redefine.
Millennia later, I am still here, untangling the otolith
out of my ear as I count how every ring
of bone numbers the good years gone by.
Radiation pierces, draping the plain with light —
cuticles of calcium glowing to say: Koi scales
are meant to be shed. Dreams are meant to exhaust.
I toss bone into dust. It spins and remains.