I’m wondering which body of water
you’ve bog-bodied your beauty
into some tawdry taxidermy

while I wait for mothballs and
murderous hues of blue staring at seasides
counting the all of me that once was new.

You call from hospice but never from hospital
and I’m riding oak with elbows perched finer than
the best stuffed birds in America. I scroll

past the promoted ads for Blue Chew
the cheap videotape for manufactured erection
the delicate begging question, while we rot
while we emaciate ourselves in low tide

who will pay for this arousal? Who will tip toward your molt,
collecting the fall on scraped careful knee just wondering
how much lingerie can we afford? And the water.