bubble wrap

i thought it was raining last
night but it was just the sound 
of dozens of little girls running
across bubble wrap-- their small
bird-like feet bursting each dome
as they scurried. the whole house,
wrapped up safe in bubble wrap.
i tried to open the window but
it was squeezed shut. packaged
for shipping. sometimes i get 
ordered on amazon by accident
& carried away to the front porch
of a happy couple who wanted a girl.
they peer inside & see all
the bubble wrap & me: a man 
in a sweater & they wrap 
me back up again & get their money back.
when i was a little girl, one body ago, 
my uncle would save
the bubble wrap for me & we'd
lay it all out on the kitchen floor
for me to run across. the snapping
would encourage the rain outside,
the clouds gathering,
a metal bowl full of blue berries
spilling down the roof & staining 
the sides of the house, we live purple.
we'd open windows. all the berries,
a ripe world of bubble wrap. 
when they finally take me
back home i spend all afternoon
cutting the bubble wrap 
off the house. i lay it out
on  the kitchen floor but can't
find the desire to pop it
so i'm careful. i treat each 
dome like a planet & i apologize
to all the bubble wrap 
i stomped over before.
they turn into berries &
i eat them alone on the couch
& cry. i don't know what i cry about.
i ask you to wrap me up in 
the bubble wrap & we take turns
doing so, packaging each other
like dollar-store figurines.
at night we wrap the bed
in bubble wrap & somewhere
past midnight we were laying
in a metal bowl of berries.
you fed me from your hand,
i ate.