Supine, your ribs unhinge
a Sydney Opera House –
two dozen alabaster antennas
updating firmware – as gore
mizzles an empty stage.

Sleepy, stolid patrons creak
patio chair plastic where
you would’ve expected upholstery
or palette-matched organs.

Why do you stare? Don’t you recognize your Arl
of the cloven hooves and defiantly flirting tail? I was
holding out hope, but a woman should trust her
intuition. You’ll never leave Mu. That name

is cursed. Got it? De-tri-men-tal. You’ve become a
torturer. And not just of yourself. In short,
I can’t – won’t – be party to this. The sweet
man I met in med school is gone. You’re Mutan in name

only. No ray or tank can bring you back. As for
those rock books, love, that’s called pareidolia. It’s a
hefty revelation, but you must bid this fawning girl
adieu. I had – have – dreams, and

won’t suffer your nightmares. Things aren’t as hard
as you’re making them. I never asked you to
be my slave. You’d best forget
that fevered fantasy. Today, I escape Lemuria, too.