Hanging over myself like a front door wreath
trying to remember where I left my body.

When I attempt sleep I crouch  
creased beneath my blanket-- 
pirogue boiled and sealed-- glued butter
lips that slip from dough-skin--I wade through
chive-cream and mashed potatoes to find where
I last left my body-- avocado cheeked--
and plum kneed as I come.
Where did I leave the body?
Where did I leave the skin?
Who last put salt and pepper
on my nose and called me dumpling?
Roll over like a cinnamon bun between it's
sisters. Roll over like pumpkins-- lopsided
and drowsy. Roll over like egg rolls 
hugging themselves in sunflower oil--
I blink into the street lamps. Creep from the
sauerkraut follicles strewn out of the edges of
the window-- poured from loose door frames.
My covers are a welcome mat
with HOME written in black letters-- wipe
your canvas shoe grooves here and I'll collect
the leaf skeletons to make them 
into weather-veins-- follow the wind 
up stream where the water turns into
oatmeal all the way up to your knees--
where I left the body, where I left the body
I told them to wait there while I found
sleep coiled and hung on the front door as a wreath.
A crown of holly berries and untimely Christmas
in October when no one even remember snow or
mashed potatoes--
I watched myself walk back inside--
wipe my feet on the welcome mat-- break
leaf skeletons-- I count the time I have
left to sleep on my ribs. As each hour passes
I break off a rib and slide it under
the loose door frame to pick back up
in the morning-- I'll tape each back into place with
butter and cream and boil myself
again while trying to remember where I last
saw my body and if I left the keys
to my rib cage under the welcome mat
or there was ever a key at all-- I'll 
make a new one from the skeletons of
the leaves-- un-hinge myself from the 
grip of the mouths of pirogue pillow creases.
I dream like I'm awake and I lay awake
like I dream. I have a tendency to walk
without my body-- move slow in a river
of oatmeal-- pass raisins and holly berries 
on my way back to the front porch again
where the light spread itself thin in
strands of sauerkraut--
Flip over the welcome mat and see all the
ants that were hiding there-- cover the word
HOME with your canvas shoes and don't wake
up the body-- let it sleep-- let it boil
until we hover over ourselves again--
walk out the front door-- wipe our feet on the way
out-- leave our bodies where we can remember them.