we all wanted to be a son.
took our faces down to the grotto
where pale eyeless fish tell fortunes.
anything can be a father
if it is far enough away.
something to be pointed to.
that over there is where
all my sadness came from. to be
masculine is to be constantly addressing
a lack of daffodils.
but, just to be clear
sew me with any flower you can find--
i'm sick of the cement & the sorry sorry
sorry. this poem is already too serious.
i'm trying to say i need to be beautiful
as soon as i can muster it.
i have been trying to focus on poems
that tell the truth.
everyone was ten years old
& cursed with a zoo in the heart.
little beautiful cages.
also ten, while making jello i dyed
my fingers red to the knuckle.
we brought forth wavering little planets.
i cry less easily than ever before.
tried to wash the red out but it persisted.
looked like i stuck my fingers
into a family machine. now it takes a lot
to make me weep so instead
i watch videos of monsoons. i wash
my hands with cool water instead
of hot. pretend everything
is a downpour. search the ceiling
for another leak & find none--
smooth & egg shell white. i sleep
inside an embryo inside a red smudge.
soon i will be someone's father--
biological or archeological & they will
gesture to me as if i were
a mountain. ask the elevation
& i can't tell you. i am a short
but still smack my head
on the ceiling. my age doubles
each time i check my face.
fish are useless in these endeavors.
only the trees read anymore.
but that is to be expected.
a body is also what it will
one day become. so tell me,
will you be my brother? here
is the photo album. here is what
i want you to look like.