12/11

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. 

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