puncture / extract 

i'm removing thumb tacs
from my walls-- finger nail prying
under each silver rim-- 
a stoic mushroom--a sharp root--
clinking like a jar of teeth 
as i collect them in a mug
on my desk. i have been
taking inventory of all 
injuries i've made to this apartment. 
from where i stand
the holes left by each thumb tac
are just barely visible
& if the wall was a sheet
of skin the holes would heal 
before the day is over.
i imagine pressing thumb tacs
into my thighs to hang photographs
& posters-- the shine of each 
silver cap like glinting 
individual scales. i'm taking
apart my room & walking closer
to the wall so that i can try
& peer into the thumb tac holes--
a periscope-- a hallway--
as if maybe one day i might
be small enough to crawl 
into these punctures
on my hands & knees--
safe in the miniature.
i pick the tacs out of
my leg-- i'd be a wonderful wall
with two windows on my shins.
blood trickles from thumb tac holes
across the wall of my room.
i take a napkin & wipe each wound--
telling the wall that there's
only a few more thumb tacs
to remove-- 
that i'm leaving in a few days
& it can take time to scab
over without me.
i show the wall my own legs--
a willow tree of blood
& the small me hiding
inside the wall 
is caught in scab--
sealed into drywall.
there he will teach himself
to write stories
only in his head until
he remember nothing of 
being a human who hung 
images on the walls of his 
room to make it feel more like
a home-- until he is a 
puncture of stories. i leave
him there because i must--
i cup my hands & hold a pile
of thumb tacs
as if they were my teeth
as if they were another 
kind of organ--
i hold them just 
to tempt their spires.
the bare walls grow taller
& i leave them to jewel-over
with maroon scab