Transplant: After Georgia O’Keeffe’s Pelvis IV, 1944

for that 26 year-old in Florida


God left before volt of black feathers descended

Buzzards left before wolves routed home with a rib


Inside their den, regurgitation of skeleton, and then another

Because wolves have two stomachs, I only have one


There is quiet now in the hospital room

Ventilator’s tail pulled from electrical socket


Your parents weep a lake. A sky and moon, too

They weep a pelvis, a painting. It hangs in a museum


I steal your hip bone, tuck it deep inside my pocket

Where else does a love note fit if not next to a groin


O, solitude. O, white-winged moth, I masquerade

My left eye blue nests a moon, I disguise myself from God


His messengers in black robes picking for a kidney

Your mother writes He never met a stranger


O’Keeffe finds herself in the desert, a transplant

Long after the buzzards and wolves have left


I ingest dissolvable moons so that we stay strangers

Two skeletons of different stomachs:


One lost in the desert, the other a planet, a god

A wolf swallows his own rib to rebuild us all


b: william bearhart is a direct descendent of the St. Croix Chippewa Indians of Wisconsin, an MFA candidate in the Lo Rez program at the Institute of American Indian Arts, and currently works as a poker dealer when not writing or editing. His work appears or is forthcoming in Cream City Review, North American Review, PANK, Plume, Prairie Schooner, and Tupelo Quarterly among others.