I can feel the moon filling 

rising in my chest, 
my throat 

a grip:
a commanding brand
blinding and hot
pressing down on my chest 
while my legs buck
on an operating table somewhere
then sated
by the cooling hiss 
of oxygen
(or at least
that's what they told me 
it was) 

"You're not yourself, Paul" 
a much shorter name than mine
and a bone saw plain
some numbing tune by the yaw of my 
loose and placid neck 
an antler-scented surgery 
while my ancestors look down upon me 
and weep
and gnash 
and bare teeth 

yet I can feel the moon filling 
again 
the scent
the swell 
the nervous claxon rising 
and the static in my lungs aching
in the shape of your name