My father only likes what is made of wood.
Every night I am trying to find my carpenter.
Every night the heater’s breath-teeth are
full of ambulances -- there is a bang
and I am startled out of these sheets that are still
all drawn with your flesh and guts. Yesterday
in the car there was a Golden Fleece floating
in the sky and I thought about your skin, about
how it looks best when painted or fragmented.
These days I am fragmenting everything,
even trees’ branches, even your cheeks’ bones --
i.e., everything belongs to somebody else, i.e., at
18 yrs old am I a body yet? Once you called my
body beautiful, once you called me cute. Murmur
in your sleep that I am beautiful and hopefully
this time I won’t spill out my organs. This time
my organs will remain intact inside of myself like wooden
piano keys, only I am still trying to find a proper forest
to spin inside of and to be built from.