Let archaeologists make beasts like bulls

out of bodies like ours. Let them find 

faith in our boyhood bones, find fault

in the pools of our hips. Last night, I drew up 

medicine like clear water and loosed 22-gauge 

needle in my leg. In the blood that swelled I sank:

I was Venus-upon-seashell, I was Enkidu enfevered 

in blood and seafoam. At the water’s edge I lap up 

salvation in milligrams and watch longhorned faces 

scream in stillwater surface. Here, there’s water 

we can die in. Here, we bury bodies irrecognizable in 

shallow silt. Let archaeologists find our sinews in 

this sediment. Let them place plaques on our 

bones. Let them be wrong, assemble me new.