microwave me

on high
but first puncture
the wrapper--
let out the steam--
i'll rotate
for you slowly--
a little performance
of manipulated
flesh-- color
leaking from
my mouth-- i became
a disciple of
heat-- of transfiguration
of turning skin
into marshmallow--
i opened the door
to my white microwave
& somehow i fit
inside--
walls of a modern
art museum-- white
& groaning with
electro-magnetic 
radiation-- the white
light flushing my
lips of the last 
drops of pale pink--
there i was kissing
my hair goodbye as it
evaporated--
yank cotton
candy from my scalp--
& inside i can say that
i have at least felt warm
& safe-- i know
where the walls end &
where the grim
window opens
for your to watch me
spin for you--
your melting daughter--
wax-made lover--
are you afraid to
climb inside with me--
puncture yourself
before entering--
we can merry-go-round
together--
hold on to me tighter--
i feel myself dissipating--
wave lengths crashing
in my blood--
boil softly beneath 
the skin--
cook me from the inside
out so my blood
vessels can burst
red firework-- magenta
thunder--
for so long i have
know this microwave
as a hymnal of compulsion--
of the open door
to my throbbing
un-evenly heated 
anxious heart--
stir me with the
plastic spoon &
blew away my breath
of steam--
what doors
do you open in the
hopes of finding
your own trepidation?
what doors hold
your numbers?
count down from
30 seconds now & orbit--
tonight the whole
planet fit in
my white microwave &
the oceans
toiled red like
my tongue & the
world behind my eyes 
was a meadow
of lava-- did
you puncture yourself
before you entered?
her mothering
glow--
open me with
a gentle
scream-- blaze
of a shoreline still
quivering 
in his bones--
the marrow a kind
of burning without
fire--
you cup yourself
in your hands-- lay
down in bed--
altered & sizzling--
dreaming
of the world so 
tight & turning--
vibrant pulse of
luminosity-- my
god has a door 
green neon numbers--
another night-- another
count down from sixty--
a minute in your
face is the only
way i've found
to take inventory 
of all the corners--
all the frayed cuticles 
& irregular leg
hair--
maybe hair is
my metaphor for 
where i'm trying to
grow--
open the door
of my white microwave--
i'll be there 
turning myself 
circle & circle--
recalling the pull of the 
merry-go-round &
listening to 
my blood let
go of 
it's red color