Fluid Parents
It rains on their insides.
The purple mountain ridges
of the heart and the red ravines
of the kidneys can scarcely cope
with the water. An inland sea
laps against the stomach wall,
sometimes just dribbles out.
We plough through cupboards of atlases
in search of the map
of this fluid fatherland.
Which they casually produce
from under a nightshirt
and which is as sodden
as their faces.
Sick mouths, dripping, badger
us, make a body map.
Lovely ugly hands
show us the way, the secret
route. Via the fattest paunch on
earth to our own feet,
soon to be swollen with fluid.
