Poem with Glass Shards

A poem by Ezekiel Black

If you replace my blood 
with motor oil, 
I would not run any better.
You cannot measure horsepower
by feet of intestines.

No, I would separate 
into bands of fluids,
a mortal beaker of urine, oil, saliva,
and when I spill, 
I will gloss the puddle 
in the gutter,
my slick spectrum
framed by a serpentine belt.

Children packed Crayon-like 
in a school bus 
glimpse my seepage, 
but their rubber gaze
favors water in motion.
Baudelaire thought children 
were always drunk,
drank paint from an antique can.