THE SPONGE

Like a boy on his first flight
asking to see the cockpit
I look into the machinery
of her moans and blow dust
off the smooth surfaces.

The technology of love is
no empty gesture. Seabirds
have bones full of air, for lift,
and yet the wandering albatross
needs wind to fly. On calm days

it can only sit on the ocean,
humming. Plus, a certain
anemone has a mouth that doubles
as an anus. That would make
it a shock-jock with good

ratings. The wombat and pygmy
hippo mate casually but
without ulterior motives.
Alcantara is a miracle fabric
that can lead to breeding

if used smartly on bed frames.
Where rivers debouch into
seas, penguins slip into
balmy cauldrons. Some females
can manufacture fertile eggs

without mating. Send in
the clones. Don’t worry, she’s
here: my parthenogenetic
insignificant other. Not
to mention the sea horse

would be a mistake, or
the frog who gives birth
through his mouth. Who needs
a spine when you can be a
nudibranch? Small talk is

functional. When you mash
the tissue of a sponge through
cloth, the resulting inchoate
broth will reassemble as a new
organism. So she may turn

tricks or do deals, wipe tears
and makeup off, change clothes
(veils, mirrors, slips, colors)
and become again herself,
a new song not yet on the radio.