fondue

all forks in the bathtub. my brother
swallows spoons from the peeling bathroom
floor. what are the towels for? hanging sideways
from clenched fists that thrust through
the wall years ago. they won't let go.
i wish my face in the sink & think gooey
cheese comes out the faucet-- scorching
hot & sizzling. all the drains clog with
apprehension. if you don't treat the house
like a body like a family like a vein
like a brother like a bowl in the sink--
then this is what happens. you're on 
your way home from work-- texting with 
your right hand & the tires turn into
wheels of cheese-- melt into the asphalt.
a fork comes down from between the clouds 
to skewer you & dip. gorgonzola & manchego--
i find the grater from the cabinet &
grate each of my pens into the bubbling pot. 
broth pours from the ceiling into the 
basement & dad breaks off the carpet &
rolls each into hamburger patties to kick
down the stairs. so many years i was scared
of those steps & the orange light that bled
from underneath the basement door as he'd
table-saw himself into quarters each night.
it was the kid's job to go downstairs &
piece him back together while he told us 
stories of the times he was in a band. 
this fondue is involuntary-- the melting
of our bodies trapped inside the house
on noble street-- windows sealed like lids.
i pound on the glass but the suction
is too tight. we might as well give in to it.
to the melting & the will of our bodies
to melt together. there are different 
types of un-becoming. this one is familial--
the stories we tell each other over &
over-- filling the bathroom & collecting
as fog on the mirrors. you tell
the story of the neighbor boy who 
she had a crush on & my brother joins
the priest hood before melting into
a pool of cheese. grips a fork for like.
i use my fork to push this mythology back down
my throat. no one wants to hear another
intrusive thought or a memory of falling
from the second floor window. if i can soften enough
here what will be left of me? my bones
turned marscapone & provolone-- white hot--
dip the meatballs-- the chicken fingers--
the celery sticks-- the baby carrot fingers. 
we all taste like salt, especially you.
i'm peeling the red wax from your smoked gouda skull.
you come home from work to all of this--
the house's siding slipping into a hole
in the earth. i hold a fork out for
you & you get in. we don't say anything 
this time. we eat quietly like a good family
like a good family.