Lev Craig

**Preparation ritual:** *You must atlas the vessel before burial. Sweeten* 



                                                                                                *the thread that joins* 



             *the feet to the throat. From the groundwater in the uncontacted soil, draw out tasteless precious metal* 



*that slides through your hands* 



 



blessed Anthony I’m talking to you because I’ve bent myself like this before. And because there is 



                        something sleeping in my throat, 



                        a warmth growing 



 



                                                                    *like butter. Invite this glowing substance into your blood. Let it eat* 



                                                                    *the unlocking muscles, not so different from plant fiber. Let it fill* 



                                                                    *the chips and ridges and reach the cool center* 



 



When I smoke, Anthony, feel it stir. 



When I speak, feel it curl 



 



*of the bone. Braid your hands into the reeds around you *                  



                                               The something burrowing in my blood? His back 



             lit through the window. 



                                     Anthony let me forget let me not 



                                     call his name in the grocery store. 



             *A river will blink back at you. Let that be action too. The river will* 



 



*replace the ribs.* Let me forget the ridges 



of his first teeth. *Watch the pitted sand* 



 



                                                                       *remove itself* 



                                                                                    *from the creases of your palms.*  



                                   It’s raining and our hands are backboned together over the gearshift at a stoplight. It’s  



                                   raining on TV and I’m still waiting. I’m waiting and the weather is failing to comply.  



                                   Anthony, I’m pushed right up against my skin. 



                                                                                                          *Kiss the wrists, thick* 



 



                                                                     *with mud and oil.* Look, 



                                   the repeated image of a consecrated body.  



                                                                     *Look, Anthony,* 



                                               there is nothing left to consecrate.