Bayonet

What can I do with this bayonet?

Make a rose bush of it?

Poke it into the moon?

Shave my legs with its silver?

Spear a goldfish?

No. No.

It was made

in my dream

for you.

My eyes were closed.

I was curled fetally

and yet I held a bayonet

that was for the earth of your stomach.

The belly button singing its puzzle.

The intestines winding like alpine roads.

It was made to enter you

as you have entered me

and to cut the daylight into you

and let out your buried heartland,

to let out the spoon you have fed me with,

to let out the bird that said fuck you,

to carve him onto a sculpture until he is white

and I could put him on a shelf,

an object unthinking as a stone,

but with all the vibrations

of a crucifix.