I think my body is polytheistic, she said,

Christian Anton Gerard

because I keep dreaming I’m bleeding and

                           the sacrifice is twofold, at least it must be because
                                                                              right before I wake up

I’m covered in blood and the bed
is a pond filled with dark clumps

of algae, but there is no algae, the clumps
are clots from inside me,

                           as if inside me has turned against me and eaten
                           what the inside is not supposed to digest
                                                                                                            and I sift my blood
like I’m searching for gold, straining
the red pond through my pillowcase                   when I find

the body’s version of gold near my feet
                                                                                                             I didn’t know I didn’t even

know my body had made what would have been                                                                             

                                                     a baby, and I do not sing the body electric, I cry

bloody murder and I am my only suspect, my body
the found weapon thrown into the pond—                                    I wake up ready

to comply with the law, like Dido, but the blood
                           is gone, no trace of the gold or fool’s

body thinking it could make so precious a thing of blood and darkness
then I remember the body is sometimes called a temple and think in my sleep

there is a god who needs to sacrifice the firstborn
                                                                                                             in my case the born was not
sacrificed in the right order so sleep must be
a shaman prophesizing what happens if the gods are angry
or sleep is the murderer
and the gods I haven’t listened to for years or ever are
making me choose my body or the body I’ve made
and I cry in the shower so you don’t see
                                                                                                                          and I don’t have to tell
you in the end of the dream

how I drink the blood from the bed and cannot make the body outside me live

so I eat it and the clumps
                                                                                               in fistfuls like those who eat dirt to become

one with whatever invented life.