cracked phone screen lake//float  

lace up your ice skates &
shake your snow globe body
full of sleet--
phone screen shadow--
evening has boney fingers
& holds a bamboo brush
to paint black
across your face--
i lay in bed-- the intimacy
between my phone & my
eyes--a sort of storm--
a sort of lightning storm--
crack the lake & fall in--
what is this bed but
a place to fall from?
i'm feeling bed snap like
tooth pick--
he says-- do you feel
like a brick held up
by match sticks? &
i hate that i do--
i do & the brick falls 
through the ceiling of
my room & cracks-- smacks down
hard-- snaps my nose--
shatters water--
ripple through sunday--
through morning-- a hurricane
of bird wing beat--
room of ice & bed times
unspent-- do not
trust the lake when it
tells you it will
freeze over in december--
the children fall in again--
their arms like saplings
reaching out from beneath
the surface-- they're statues 
now-- it was always too late--
slip into your
cracked phone screen now-- cold
cold water splashing
on bed sheets-- 
you're coming
in after them-- your
think you can save a statue
--swim--
thrash plunging between
pixels-- relieved to
be smaller-- to be so
snug in your own palms--
she plucks each desired
hour of sleep out of my
body--pulling the thread--
the frayed hem line
i lay awake on the surface
of my phone screen--
cracked lake-- crack 
face-- nose bleeding
into water--into sleet--
was it god who hurled
the first brick? was
it god who made my
legs from match sticks--
striking each other as 
i run myself into fire 
in the morning--
light the candle wick of
my tongue & sing a song
in the language only
the apostles would understand--
those twelve ragged ivy plants--
their red knuckles clutching
the heels of their god 
as he shook them each like
a snow globe-- 
maybe it was me--
i was the brick &
the match sticks my bed
& the lake still my
phone screen &
maybe i haven't been floating--
maybe i've been sinking so peacefully 
that i hadn't even noticed bubbles
trailing from my mouth--
i click my phone off--
pick shards of glass out
of my hands--stigmata--
that's not fitting
i think to myself--
let blood soak into
my pillow--
the act of sleeping is a 
promise between your body
& the threat of the water--
like kissing
the cracked surface of a
lake & daring yourself
not to drink
i lay awake-- i do not
pray for sleep--
i float//sink