They Will Sew the Blue Sail

Hard | Linh Dinh

Though all names are gaseous, and soon,

Mercifully, to be blown away, it’s still better

To have a minty moniker than to be cursed,

Even after death, by one’s creditors and marks.

Silly old Jew, how can your last breath trump

Your howling birth, for even a quick slant

Of sunshine is worth it, though you end up toast.

Precocious, he’d rather linger at open caskets

Than slobber at orgies, not that there’s any.

Even before the clumsy and anxious undressing,

They might flee, leaving you to touch yourself.

Unlike corpses, lovers don’t stay put. Come,

Let’s tickle each other before we’re hard.

Boozing, we sling tosh, but that’s fine, for

Deadened faces can’t cheer up the damp,

Mutely suffering yet, at times, perky parts.

With a tube down his throat, the sick man dreams

Of pho with raw and cooked beef, and brisket,

While in a darkened room, a young man stares

Very hard at miraculous strangers. Sleepless,

She imagines much nudging, lapping and kissing.

Only in the mind does life spread out fully. As

The young man cleans his crotch, the corpse

Is washed, then incinerated. She too washes.