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Codicil of the Arrogant Man

I leave you the cold

slab of moon

laid out dark on the table

like the sky,

the moon

no ethereal patient, but bodily

heaven brought low.

No corona. The vet

took to the saw work like a cow

to grass, while the actress

snapped cheesy photos

of the autopsy:

Me with the circular saw

poised over the Sinus Medii.

You peering cautiously beneath the sheet

as if still hardly daring, now the moon was dead,

to check out its backside.

How often we’d teased each other

about pinching its behind,

if only it would ever turn around.

Now solemnity spoiled our fun, even if you cracked

a joke slitting its trousers up the rear.

And the moon split open,

boned and trimmed,

the vet’s hands laying each piece

out on its plate.

I leave you the cow or rather

I am supposed to leave you

that constellation of heifers

who heaved themselves into heaven.

Those black stars.

They didn’t do it.

Or stop to taste the strangers in the car

on their joyride up

the county route ruined

by that roadkill moon.

All the rot and killing

and they didn’t smell a thing.

I leave you the actress, her parka, her girlish

face by the field. Imagine her playing

her well known face

in a documentary cobbled together without original footage.

Besides reenactments, photographs star

with death masks and astrolabes.

Need I mention how dark

her parka was?

– as if she could swaddle all

the light the moon leaked,

and it wouldn’t notice

it had fallen from the sky.

Ezra Dan Feldman