Do not worry, it is only the casual fear
that makes me test our love in small, maritime ways; lately,
I have done this by picturing your kidney, locked
in a jar, happy & numb like a potted plant. I have inquired
after my feelings for it, if I adore it
in its isolation & if it adores
me too. It’s really late capitalism,
and all my lucid thoughts are medical. At 3am
the skies are petrol, then there’s me dreaming of dissection games, crazy
for overly dramatic music, chutneys,
plum compote! This is all that we are left
with: old things, older bodies,
reassembled. I’m just here doing the least,
non-stop testing like the times
when I picture my finger nudging
your kidney tenderly, seeing if it will bob back
to me in its liquid,
my mouth turned St Petersburg blue with minor
anticipation, O jellyfish,
formaldehyde love.