The trees will eventually
turn into cracking spines;
let me show you
power
and the strength
of his backbone.

dad,
build a chapel
with her bedroom’s burnt floor
and mourn every February
for her.

I can see the shadow
from her window
reflecting in your eyes and
the matches she lit
in your therapy.

has the ash on her body
from that night
come off your fingers yet?

I will continue to shed skin
until I remind you
nothing of her.

you told me to be levelheaded
because symmetry is what makes a beautiful face.

instead,
I will touch my stomach
to the bottom of the pool
so you can’t examine me
without being as low as I am.

if you still want to see,
meet me in the deep end—
we can have a toxic tea party
just you and I.

maybe,
when I finally float to the top
you’ll say
my sense of foolishness
is what you’ve always
loved.

I saw a man
walking up to a cart
full of empties
and wondered:

will he walk
along side it
like it’s his first love
or push it
like it’s a new born
and I wondered
which is really
sadder

if you need to talk,
call the scrap yard.
ask for the girl
who sifts through debris
and finds spare parts
that can try to replace
your failing ones.

I will answer
to whistling teapots
and accumulated newspapers
if you don’t have time to call;
drinking gasoline so I don’t fall asleep,
and oil for stability.

if the things I find
cannot help,
I will relinquish my function
so I don’t fail you too—
the sum of my parts
could never make a whole
as lovely as yours, anyway.