prophecies 

the knobs fall of my parent's cabinets
one by one like silver hearts
or empty dove eggs. naturally,
i am the son to harvest them.
fill my pockets. weighty little wrists.
the cabinets ask me to fix them 
& when i'm feeling generous i oblige.
screw the handle into thread bare hole 
& open to find whatever menagerie awaits.
once, i pulled up a chair to watch
a circus of moths teach each other
to waltz in the remnants of our flour.
another night i witnessed a rat
playing harmonica for a lost lover.
every cabinet is its own secret little show.
even the empty ones yield prophecies
if you stick you head inside
& close your eyes. 
hunger is a full-body memory. 
an opening that doesn't seal shut
even when humming with dried apricots.
when i eat from the cabinets
i feel like i'm throwing
sand into a suitcase. gaping each door
to ask crumbs if they remember
my searching as a child. ask
if they can assemble themselves
into a sitting room or a sanctuary.
once, i opened a cabinet & found
a mirror that would not hold
my reflection. how much had i thinned?
even light had no questions for me.
i asked my own what color 
are my eyes? no answer: refraction.
it is better tonight thogh. 
the cabinet feeds me
a television show about climate change
& i suck on the knob like a pearl.
something in the oven is going 
to be ready soon. i can feel the heat
in my skeleton. i'm goin
to eat with my fingers when 
there's no one else to see. 
i'm going to slip inside 
a cabinet door myself. 
become a picture-show or 
a package of dried milk.