a screw driver under the bed

into feathers
all our pillow burst
like dismantled dahlias.

it's that time of year
where everything needs  
to be fixed--

keep a screw driver
under the bed in case
the ghosts lose their bolts
during the night.

a spring comes free 
from my neck & i don't 
try to put it back.

my mouth got
that yellow noisy laundry smell
like a flashlight on the face
of a dead planet.

i decide to use that yellow
& i sneak into your room
to eat your clothes
while you're not home:
it's a kind of kissing.

you would probably say 
that we don't kiss enough anymore
but look we loved each other
so much that the pillows
couldn't take it anymore.

socks first--
i eat them in their knots,
chewing, crushing my soap teeth 
into their fabric. i close my eyes 
& imagine stale 
garlic bread.

don't worry i spit them out!
when i say "eat" i mean
just chewing because
that's the only important part. 

the moon cracks under pressure
& the clocks ask each other 
if they're "doing alright."

chew your food
at least 37 times each bite
someone told me.

next i eat dresses you don't own,
they're ghost-like flirting
around your room, so i grab them
& clean them up. they leave bolts
on the floor 
& i scold them for it.

you have too many clothes 
for me to scrub in one night
so i just gather up
the feathers from the pillow
& toss them into the air

which i was hoping
would bring the pillow back
but they just sank to the floor.

"i can't fix everything," i say
as i punch a hole in the wall
with my screw driver.

"yes you can," say the ghosts
as they drop planks of wood
from their chests.

the feathers breed more feathers--
the bolts breed more bolts.

your socks are hungry too
so i put them on my hands
like puppets & make them talk
to keep me company.