individually packaged 

everything's wrapped up
around here, the cellophane
round the dead trees,
standing bent 
as dried sea horses,
try to find the corner
to undo them,
picking with my nails.

then of course there's 
the tupperware with whole
houses instead. i approach 
but there's no way i could
pry off the clear red lid 
on my own,
is this where you live?
behind a dull wall. 
does it keep you all fresh?

do your parents tell
your to lay down on 
press & seal: roll you up.
you make a crinkling body.
i but you smell like 
cilantro & lemongrass. 
you stay young.

outside someone comes
by each day to wrap birds
in foil, twisting up each
in the shape of swans.
they perch all across
the yard, occasionally 
rustling & i say 
ssh ssh
hold still, you'll spoil.

TEAR HERE
says a cloud. i reach for
the plastic corner, pinch
between fingers. i think
for a second that maybe 
i shouldn't. that maybe
i'll ruin everything if i open
this all up.

i think of you wrapped up
in bed & your parents in their 
own separate tupperwares,
everything so crisp.
i will eat you someday,
i mutter.

i pull the corner 
& the sky lets out a sigh,
like taking off pants
like spilling a glass 
of orange juice that wanted
to topple over all along.

all the packaging holding
in a May mouthful of
wanting behind the seal. 

i know this means 
we'll go bad. we'll ripen & rot
terribly soon.
a kind of organic panic.
i want to look at 
your house from far away.
to see it contort: 
an apple core
a collapsing swan
a drying sea horse.