Washing the Corpse
(A false translation from Rilke)

Nava Fader

A stitch in my side is a gaping
opportunity, a dock where pretties may come
at me, unruly curls bobbing

with their parries. En garde! Poke
their pouted pretzels and suck,
brazen, the salt. Perfectly good mussels
rot in the sun underfoot. And the hussies

flaunt their fine health. Bubble froth Morse
moment in the climb. From zwieback
to shit kickers, the wandering goose
tracked by the wolf is done for.

Under their knickers, a waltz is netted.
A peacock covers all his eyes as they dab
restorative weeping against a pitiless window,
uncurtained, unveering, uncertain, uncured.