the earth in the shape of a hexagon 

what can i tell you about 
about being born from the ceiling?
there was a hole cut 
with plastic straw. the rain came down
like a shopping bag of marbels. 
both my eyes are glass. the bath tub 
is expecting something more from me.
faucets are animals.
i want to make the universe proud.
burning incense, i send 
fragments of gratitude up 
to the slow-spinning ceiling fan.
the fan turns into a flock of ravens.
i cover my face, afraid of what
the birds might want to do with me.
my desk lamp flickers
with laughter. above, a neighbor
is crumpling into a pile
of dandelion heads. below, the basement
has thoughts about 
what my body would do in the dirt.
i am so tired my eyes take trips
without me. one eye is bobbing 
in the river. i see sharks.
i see the bodies of future boys. 
the other eye left orbit. i see
an image of the earth. it's not round.
a hexagon. don't worry NASA
i won't tell anyone but this poem. 
poems are great at keeping secrets.
some is true. some is not 
but everything is true in a poem.
i really did fall down 
from the ceiling one night.
i have bruises on my knees to prove it.
starting my life all over again.
all my phone contacts turned to gnats
& i had to try & catch them.
i'm reborn like this every few weeks. 
some white people have strange ideas 
abot reincarnation. my other friend
who is also a witch says she hopes 
this life she got it right
& doesn't have to go through it all again.
she thinks she can break the cycle. 
i think of all the ceiling in all the houses
& all the building & all the openings 
a life could fall through. i think 
of all the objects that can be used
to crawl through.

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