The ana of Ana

I psychoanalyze the supranational anatomy 

of your presence on the country of my body.

A trepanation of the womb, c-scar 

over the planar of your cocoon, a harpoon 

of light puncturing through, umbilical cord

dangling like an illusory liana in a zoo, a dead 

anaesthetic to kill the pain when you, jackanapes, 

swing from the pomegranate tree of our ancestry.

The canal crests with ruby waves, an orphanage

of all the lost children who will never again

make their way through the oceanarium 

where you stayed. 

I fanaticize the women who can swim in liquid 

nirvana while pushing out their appendages. 

In a kind of reincarnation-thanatology, I manacle 

myself to canary-bright outcomes, stories that will 

remain untold while you and I get old. 

We’ll retreat into our inner zenanas, 

misty, baby’s breath and succulents on our anadems.

Two ballerinas glissading to a regal bacchanalia,

where everything going wrong is the real panacea.