hitch-hike mornings 
& stars that fall like pears

what will we do with all
these stars?
i ask you because you
always seem to have a plan
for making
use out of falling objects.
let's make jam or jelly
or a great big pie.
they keep coming down
like the pears dropping
from the tree in my
aunt's backyard-- each star
plump & round-- engorged from 
all the rain this month.
there's been 
so much downpour
for tongue-dry july & the fruit's
insides taste like
gulps of creek water & dew.
i walk outside early early
in the morning--
before my father
wakes up & stands at the counter
alone to eat a bowl
of cheerios--
before my brother tumbles
down the stairs like 
a rubber bouncy ball--
before my dog's claws
clack across the kitchen floor--
before the day mouth
opens all full of sun--
i walk outside.
there is no light 
but the moon who walks 
daintily on a tight rope
pulled between the trunks of
the two tallest trees.
there, one our street,
i stick out my thumb
& raise it high even though
no cars are passing by yet.
i've always wanted to hitch-hike
somewhere that i could go to escape
myself-- i think that's why people
travel really-- to walk father
& father away from places
so haunted by the memories of
their bodies--
i want to be plucked off the side
of the road like a bruised 
pear-- make me into 
a pie or a jar of jam 
(if you can even make jam out
of pears)
& leave me on the back porch 
of my parent's house--
maybe the car will be driven
by a younger version of myself--
her hair long & bleached blonde
& pulled back with blue hairclips.
she still only drives in the 
right lane & is afraid of 
speeding--
i tell her to drive--
i say--
let's cut through 
this night//morning
& not look back--
we can escape 
these bodies together--
& as we pull away i 
leave my skin
on the side of the road--
standing with my thumb pointed
up
to the moon like
a compass--
the car turns the
road into a film reel & 
we unravel as we go--
the streets turning into
tunnel of corn--
growing taller & taller 
--the sky hailing down
pears-- smacking on the
windshield--
bruising & browning
in piles & piles & piles.
there's so many uneaten 
stars--
we pull over to collect the 
side in our pockets so that
wherever we end up
we can plant the sky the
same--
& in the end traveling
is all about where you 
make a home & how
you learn to stop running away
from your body--
we stop back where
we started & i get out
of the car to step back
into myself-- put my thumb
down & watch her driveaway
& when i get back inside
it's still before
my father gets up to eat his 
morning cheerios & 
the sun is still only
a pursed smirk
outside the windows-- 
i cut the brown parts
out of a star from the backyard--
i eat it piece by piece
sliced by the green pairing knife
& i let the juice trickle
down my forearms like
dew & creek water
& july rain--