Legs Up To Fly Poem by James McLain

Underneath the pale sheet
Moyna is paler
it is cool she is not
burning dried salt white the
powder her hair
gives this once new meaning.
Hurriedly with caution sheet
is turned back, whispers
moaning
my leg moves undirected phantoms
have hold.
Live births grey eating flesh debited
massed rolling ball writhing panting
dripping feasts unheard
maggot flies babies
dance on Moyna's leg
removing her last work of art
unrolled is this blue purple once blank canvas.