a chimney once held between
******* lies on the pavement
head kicked in
ash spluttered
against the concrete
embers refusing to let go
of their blood orange glow

My father is a lion with his mane cut
                               and slicked back, learning to walk
                   on hind legs, back arched high.

                                          ~

             ­         My mother has a wolf in her chest
             howling for light, for the
                                          lantern hanging in the sky.

                                          ~

                   ­                            My brother has a cage
                                                            ­        for ribs
                                                        but so do I.

                                          ~

I am a wild safari:
             a bathing elephant, a sleeping
                                               tiger, a brilliant peacock fanning its
                                  feathers, waiting to
     **** its head and release
          a warrior cry.

If the sun had hands, he’d reach out
to touch the curve of the moon’s spine, tracing
his fingers along each crater as she lit up
for him like a paper lantern
in the sky. His flamed limbs enveloping
her, his Luna. The arch of her back
against the backdrop of night, her fullness
intoxicating. After all this time, still burning for her.

When the sun was given hands, he cursed them
as he watched the moon crumble
into ash in the blaze. His hands were Rome
and he couldn’t stop the collapse, the ruins of her
scattered across his cupped palms. He prayed
to Moirai for revival, but all three gods
were silent. Choking back flames of fury, he tossed
his beloved into the black expanse, each flake still lit
with a passion to rebel the stars
that continue to burn with foolish hope.

I wanted to be light so I swallowed the sun.

The tangerine stained race track
spread across our **** carpet, a turn
by the wooden bed frame, a loop
near the five piece drum set.
My brother’s fingertips gripped a Hot Wheel
by its rear end, its rubber wheels
greeting the track, propelling it forward,
launching it into another plastic vehicle,
and Crash.

I nursed the toy cars through emergencies,
playing doctor to replace cracked windshields
and torn plastic bumpers, victims
of one too many collisions. It alarmed me
how easily the 1976 Mustang could lose its wheel,
sending it spinning like a dreidel while my brother grinned
with splintered teeth, feeling nothing.
The car survived the impact, but people
don’t always walk away from accidents. They can’t be raised
on jack stands and tinkered with. The operation table,
home to drivers with fluttering heartbeats,
can hum to the deafening beat of a flat-line monitor.

My touch can start brush fires.
My fingers are ***** matchsticks,
the kind your mother warned about.

My petaled lips spark against yours
like flint against steel.

My volatile breath, an overcast of smoke
creeping from the belly of my throat.

My twisted tongue douses your chalky skin
with fuel, a gasoline spreading to your logged limbs.

I leave your organs to curdle,
and by morning glow,
you’re nothing but a burn victim.

I think about you around the holidays,
how I’d follow the sprinkles scattered on the floor
like bright constellations guiding me to you
kneading dough on the kitchen counter.
Your dress shirt, missing a button near the pressed collar,
was painted with flour. You carried those grains of sugar
in the pocket of your fingernails for days.

The holidays aren’t the same since you left.
The wreath has shed its needles
like a rattlesnake stripping of its skin.
The Coca-Cola snow globe on the mantel has cracked,
leaking snow confetti onto the rug.
(I swear it was sobbing, too.)

Last night, I awoke to a glass ornament
dropping to the floor like a fallen angel.
I sliced my fingertip on a shard
while sweeping the remains.
I found your missing button under the tree skirt,
the only piece of you that stayed.