the birdcage metaphor

i will be another person
to describe my body
as a birdcage-- only
this
time it's being used 
as a garden & i can feel
the purple petals of the
african violets pressing
up against each rung of
my chest-- 
i spit out flowers & my
esophagus become a stamen  
my tongue grainy & dripping
with pollen i double over
like daffodils after a bite
of post-winter frost--
heave yellow dust from my
mouth & out my throw crawls
the heads of the hydrangeas--
i open wider to pull 
them out-- 
one by one--
each cloud of petals reminds
me of tufts of cotton candy
& i take a bite but it reminds
me how bitter flower petals are--
i take a match stick
to the dripping purple & blue
hydrangea skulls & they ignite--
burn like basement light bulbs
or dim porch lamps cluttered 
with moth wings--
the petals push harder & harder
on the inside of my chest--
there's no way out but through my
finger nails & there's never been
enough fire to take from the
moon to prevent my body from
going up in a blaze of vine
& bloom-- 
this is the kind of
death we get;
on our knees mouth wide open 
& full of burning flowers
we can no longer pull out--
this is another birdcage 
metaphor about what it's like
to live trapped inside a body--
& the hydrangeas are my mother's favorite--
she says they used to grow 
around the outside of her grandmother's
house-- & sometimes i ask myself
what kind of house i'm living in--
with no room to breathe between 
the impatient fists of violets 
& the grit of yellow pollen
on my teeth--
i bloom burst & take my freckles off
as seeds to plant some flower
less likely to catch fire in the
heels of my feet-- stems
branch up through my ankles--
wilt with me 
in this post-winter frost--
can't you feel the pollen under your
tongue? dry & sweet 
& prying apart your teeth
to make room for more petals--