cobalt

I would that Tom Sawyer were dead. And
Becky Thatcher. I dont know the difference.

The burning sun has evaporated the infection.
Hester Payne, freshly cleaned and cured, arrived
via sunspot eclipse patrol and removed me from the heart
of the Hot zone.

Now, Im back in her quarters, and all I can feel is the cascade of water droplets,
a disinfectant of angry bacterial reticence.

Hester Payne sits knitting in the living room
bereft of her pain and quandary, a solved
puzzle of reconstituted human life.
Tangled bulls, my balls crack against my legs and
water lids drop forward in speed.

Veins pop out on my arms and my head wants to crack.
Kiss me or look at my nuts, hold me
or drown me in the hair of the drain.

This dropped bar of soap: a salty fetus, disintegrating.