eating the moon

IT DOESN'T RAIN ON VENUS

It doesn't rain on Venus but if it did, I imagine
the rain there would burn a little like shame
or a fever or maybe a kind of acid—gnawing
at the skin like termites at wood.

Would I still look up at the orange sky,
no sun in sight, great maw of hell spitting—
              and open my mouth to drink?
I think I would. Even one little drop
would burn right through my tongue.

Swollen from thirst, I place myself
in the poem, standing alone
in the heart of a valley on Venus,
eyes closed, catching drops of searing rain
on my tongue: mouth on fire /
body on fire / everything on fire—
and yet, somehow, the mind.
The mind persisting