my uncle's garlic five cloves on the top of the fridge. commas are born from wanting more hair ties. he takes a spoon to his own ceiling & scrapes. i was too young for so long. we ate bread on the deck & watched horses turn into dinner rolls. the sea level rose like a waist band. the video game controller was a sibling & we pressed his forehead to death. each morning the doves take bets on us. spit dice from their tongues. sometimes the fridge is a woman. sometimes he's a man. my uncle hunches over a canvas & tries to draw garlic skin. meanwhile, the planets shed their first layers & drop them. silk garments. why aren't more fruits swaddled? inside they ache & ache until they're eaten. all my sweetness was wasted on being sixteen. once the bed & breakfast tried to serve me a tremor. in the yard we could grow a whole photograph. the garlic needs to be smashed by someone with stone hands. these are uncommon in my family. my dad has always been made of rubber. my mom polishes her face in a puddle. the television gives us a phone number to call. nothing is worth singing about anymore so inside i play a dead harmonica to wake up the dead deer. we take turns becoming lobes. i want to be minced & fine. i want to smell like a trestle towards salt. the painting is complete & it doesn't look like a man. in the driveway a strange car turns around but we prep for invasion. eating standing up. trading shoes. i pocket a single tear of garlic & slip into the seam.