white noise closet

sand rained down like hush hush
hush. i want a container 
so the desert can tell us 
what it's been thinking. the old moon
replaced with a fresh hard boiled egg.
aliens waiting by their phones 
for the truth. in the box 
i converse with dead televisions
& they suggest i plug my ears 
with ice. the slow release. 
a tiny coffee mug chews a hole
in my palms. you walk through 
as if i were a photographable arch.
at the end of the universe & the hallway
is a lush park where all the trees
never change & sound is caramel textured.
i like the grit of my closet though.
the way it makes me prickle. 
sometimes i grow needles 
& everyone backs away. 
a cactus once whispered to me 
get out of the sunlight so i bought
sunglasses at the corner store.
a doorknob is a kind of jewerly.
don't touch. don't open. my sound
is personal & you don't undestand
what it means to capture.
tongues are a brand of doorknob.
here none of my thoughts
go skipping away with hard candies
in their mouths. i am a choking hazard.
i am at risk of falling
& cracking my head open 
like a bowl of punch. marshmallows
swell where the ice should be.
i'm all about coaxing sugar
out of the cracks in the wood.
in the closet, i can't turn around.
just to be clear, this isn't
the gay or trans closet.
this closet is less about keeping
& more about salvation.
this is the kind of box you could
get raptured inside if you're
not careful. never be too holy
or you might get lifted
on a day when god is lonely.
i make sure to commit 
small managable sins 
each & every day. the rush gushes 
from under the door & i try
to scoop it up. don't go.
keep me close & stormed. i want
to have no dry air in my head.
what can you do but lay 
on the floor & hear all the neighbors
in the world talking about 
traffic cones & lost lovers.
i am a leftover person. 
wait on the other side 
of the door. don't knock 
i'm busy with a plummet. 

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