backseat poet; 
the art of stealing your
family member's tongues

my whole family fits
on the side of a pill capsule.
i plant it under my tongue
to remind me of how to write
about this kind of love--
it's dry & silent to swallow--
full of so many voices
all tangled in saliva & 
crooked block-tower teeth--
we gather our yanked molars
collecting under each pillow 
& my uncle gambles with 
his baby teeth that never
fell out-- 
we play black jack at the kitchen
table between mounds of dirty
dishes-- we used the fine china so
it was probably christmas
before our table shrank to
the size of a pill capsule--
that's how i like us--
a quiet pocket of voices 
all knotted in my mouth--
you like to make jokes now
about how you're all going
to end up in a poem & it's 
true because you will-- 
i have all of you under my tongue--
& every bruise-- every plate--
every night where the moon
was too thin to hold a deck
of cards-- they're all
right here burning ulcers
in my gums--
count to twenty-one with me--
bite black licorice out
from between the grey night clouds--
my parents had two sons
& a back seat poet--
every single word i swallow 
until i'm too full of us
to not break open in stanzas
stacked next to the piles of 
dirty dishes that christmas
when we counted to twenty-one
until the moon was too heavy
for all of our teeth--