Goddess of the tidal basin, rising wingless
through her aquamarine world,
the intervening surface oiled
with the blood of pearlfishers.
He blinks and she’s gone and
two miles above sea level
the surgery reeks of loss (formaldehyde, lemon).
An illness archipelago-shaped,
8 x 12 film held to the candle
that darkened the far end of the room.
In the starved margin violets stain the shadow.
There is a ghost beneath the golden dome.
A cameo of bone merges with the side of her face.
The antidote coagulates in the bowl.
The doctor’s hand moves above the knife blade:
he waits for the muscles to relax before he enters.