i'm haunted by my god 

i'm playing mancala on your back 
with frozen droplets of water. 
this is where winter will soon leave us
with a cracked window. a slit of frozen 
air. i will wrap myself in all the blankets
i now keep on the radiator & i will become
a bear. my claws will leave permanent scratches
on the wooden floors. on fridays we
burn our clothes. on mondays we sew all day.
we spend the weekend growing fur
& shaving it off in the sink. i am scooping
hair from the drain & watching it carefully
so that it does not turn into 
a new animal. you have to be careful
with your own debris. the game involves
letting the pieces melt on your skin.
how the back curves less like a valley 
& more like an ocean shelf. i'm collecting 
blushing leaves as if they will
never come back. i am making necklaces 
of them & perching with my legs
dangling out the window. when i pray 
i do it somewhere in my throat as if
there's another mouth down there.
one that's desperate & can only 
ask for love. that mouth is wax &
full of sugar. that mouth is 
snowing teeth. that mouth is opening 
& almost singing. how could i begin
to explain how many CDs i'm keeping secret?
what you're probably wondering is
how i play the game on your skin
& the answer is there are many reasons
to play a game. i play because 
i love touch & i love pretending
you are covered in melting scales.
it snowed hard that summer but no one else
but me saw it. we road our bikes
in the snow. we wore flipflops
in the snow. we climbed a lighthouse 
& watch the white grin around us 
like a world of perfect teeth but 
all you saw was august. once my hair
did turn into an animal. me & you chased it
up & down our short hallway with
the net we thought we'd one day use
to catch butterflies. now i sew leaves together
& tell them to become butterflies. yes,
the animal. it scurried & eventually 
fell apart. i put the hair in a ziploc bag
where nothing can live very long.
it is important to keep track of
every bit that's fallen off your body.
we are buildings at best & at worst 
we are mancala beads slipping from side 
to side across warm skin. searching 
for a divot to sleep in. i'm taking my bed tonight 
& setting it free. pushing it through
the window & letting it fly to the ground
below. how else will it learn how to 
use its legs? everyone is going around
telling me it is going to be a harsh winter
& i laugh because i won't survive 
a harsh winter--not with so few clothes.
not with my sadness talking all day long
from a mouth in my throat-- not with god 
painting all the leaves just to take them 
down he is just like my uncle & his 
half-finished canvasses. end the world
already. give me flyleaf 
of snow. i'll be here letting my movements 
melt on your skin, using the curve
of your back to walk underwater
where the snow is an ache.