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The port rests on my high right chest, a pink crater,
a  cleanly folded linen shroud kissed with tears
wheeled from operating room to recovery  
by melting folds of scrub blues with iodoform scents.

The fragrance of me is creased into a tucked blanket,
monitors on my legs and arm caressing rhythmic,
sounds dissolving into the hum left in a plastic wind-
wafting hints of my odorless crenulated alchemical cure.

My wife holds the origami of my old self in a
blue zip lock hospital bag that opens with a
singe of nitrate, the final aroma of good cooked food
settling on a rack then vanishing into a memory portal.

I smell no future,  just the staleness of hope and fear
as I uncrease myself into my clothes and stand unfolded
at the exit, in the threshold of a shadowless sunlight
whose sleeves I sniff for the blossoming plum tree.
The port is a medical port that is installed for the administration of chemotherapy.
Kiss me.
Devour me.
Press yourself to me until inside
and forever let me know you are there.

Every breath is you.
Every smell is you.  
Everything I taste has the savor of you.  

I look around and everything is you.

Noise settles into the house with the timber of you.  
The gentle cloth of day has the touch of you.
The night smells of you.  
The rain is full of your wetness.
Sunlight is full of the color of you.

The tree is full of the wood of you.
It’s roots keep me planted in you.  
I do not sway for I am anchored in your love.
Bury me not in a high tomb of gloom
on days sacred to all your lonely heart
nor scatter my ashes in the pale moon
on June’s or September’s early-late start.

Mix me in with all my good beastlies‘ dust,
one third reserved for Elsi’s sweet embrace,
two parts crushed into diamonds that not rust
worn near heart or hurled to a far star trace.

If thy can’t bear part with my ash and bones
plant me in a petunia ***, blond bloom
monitored by your sweet echoing tones  
growing forever in our living room.

Either way I was loved, I cried, I sighed,
I aspired and created all under your tide.
Jonathan Moya Jul 20
Days before liftoff Neil Armstrong saw Easy Rider
in the cool solitude of a dark space 25 miles
from the launchpad and Born to Be Wild
blasted in his ears as the Saturn V lifted him
with the drive of over 400 sky blue corvettes
towards a lunar orbit almost four days later.

Space was a million outstretched slapping hands
welcoming him, congratulating him, a cradle
that rocked him in the ebb and flow of propulsion
and focused him to touch the white mobile above,
delete the mechanical drone, the white noise
of mission control, and Collins’ and Aldrin’s prattle.

He marooned them in the back of his mind
to the deepest of the deep, sailors lost in
The Sea of Tranquility, landing on Island Earth
until eons of isolation devolve them to
Australopithecus in the Kubrick movie with  
that tapir femur hurled to a match cut orbiter.

That magnificent desolation, that beat-up
sand-blasted ball with hole upon hole
was his second daughter aching to
reconnect with the dust of Karen.
He steered clear of the crater, landing
the Eagle in an embrace of ***** beach sand.

He rehearsed the landing mantra,
“That’s one small step for a man,”
dropping the article in the tear of his helmet,
as he noticed the lunar soil glistened
like the high Mojave Desert near Edwards AFB,
adhering like Canaveral sand in Karen’s palm.

On the flag’s finial he left her death bracelet,
the cut strap looped to whole, the beauty of earth
reflecting in in his visor, and in the banner’s toppling,
footprints erasing in combustion’s goodbye,
he realized “****, I really did it.  I blew
the first words on the moon, didn’t I?”
I have no taste for whiskey,
although it seems over the years
I have developed a proclivity for cancer,
for building the nacre into  pearl.  

It’s funny how one can live with death
scooted to the borders, listening to it
rap the door with sub-audible gusts
that only your dog hears and barks at.

The holy trinity, my wife calls it,
three masses on the left, right,
concluding down in a ****** triangle,
a parasite, a dark natural beauty of my years.

The bad genes of my parents play out their divorce
in my body, diabetes and cancer
fighting for the claim to death’s victory,
my only peace being to cut them both out.

The Great Physician puts my cure
in the hands of fallible demigods,
whose inclination is to bury hope in the
condolences of the other well-intentioned masses.

“It’s great that you feel no pain,
Your color looks good today,” they echo
as the pallid tv weatherman I met
in ruddy years on the brown river shuffles by.

The nacre of the cancer ward-
an open shirt skeleton on oxygen,
two old black men  talking loudly
about seasons of diagnosis and mistreatment,

just waiting, waiting, waiting to get better
caws at me as I make my way
to the reception table just bright enough
to not seem an open casket.

My wife fills out three pages asking
for family obituaries while I answer
on a tablet forty questions about death,
five about life, two about insurance.

I wait in quiet sitting in a clinical green chair
Listening  for my name to be called,
thinking not about the culled pearl
but the beautiful oyster thrown way.
Jonathan Moya Jun 19
Icarus’ sister exists only in living stone,
the watchful daughter of the craftsman
in the middle of his own labyrinth,
once his prized creation, placed in
the prime line of his drafts, design, eye
of his genius, now a relic existing
in a dusty nowhere cobweb corner
stained with Minotaur blood,
watching her fleshy father
falteringly stitch wax, feathers, twigs
to a frame that could not
take the water and sun of every day birds,
not even the weight of a son’s pride
who complacently raveled and unraveled
his father’s clew, half hearing  cautions,  
his mind flapping beyond the planets.

She cried over how Daedalus could
dote over such mortal error
while she exists in perfect neglect,
cried a tear turned prayer that
mixed with the dust, the murderous
blood crusting the rusty teeth of Perdix’s saw,
knowing hence  that men **** their best dreams,
fear the successful  flight of  their ideas, and  
that her faith, trust now forever lived with the gods.

Hephaestus heard her and bellowed her mind,
taught her to seek inspiration in the rejected
metal slivers that littered the workshop
like the sand of Naxos where Theseus
left Ariadne in her abandoned dreams.

In the cry of that other lost daughter
she heard the sound of ascent,
saw father and son in erratic flight
and followed to the top of the labyrinth
to watch two glints align in descent
and one splash into the sea.

Graced with the knowledge
that forbearers would
name the waters below for this fool,
she deposited Icarus in their father’s arms,
and flew away on brass wings of her own design,
wingtips skipping waves, seeking the sun.
Jonathan Moya Jun 18
These are the things he scribbles
in the little white paper of his brain:
catch the movement
of passing shadows in a window;
search the clouds
for the feathers of a robin’s wing;
listen in the spaces of music
for the laughter of angels in hiding.

These are the things she knows today,
yesterday and maybe tomorrow:
that car mirrors, puddles, all silvery things
reflect unmated and backwards smiles;
that fluffy clouds contain the best animals
but layered ones hold all her best dreams;
that Leonard Cohen’s Hallelujah
leaves her aching, reaching, unformed.

These are the things their future holds:
she will be his forever song,
the smile that remains in the shards,
they will be the only mirror they know,
that cotton days will pillow their dreams
and nimbus nights will rain their pain,
their life will be Hallelujah and prayer
and tiny angels will be their best dreams.
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