i ask to be taught proliferation.
how do you decide an arm should become
another arm? walking future children
on leash. a length of rope
short enough to prevent mischeif.
in high school my friends sat amoung
spider plants. finger-fed them dead flies
& removed bug nets from the closet.
all night hunting morsels down
for the garden. barefoot, i sliced my heel
on a roaming dread. here i am just about real
though occasionally i slip into
that old pattern of ghost conversation
where your mouth doubles. question
& answer. call & response. sometimes
i create an extra hand just to hold
my heart like an apple on a golden plate.
i'm interested in what it would take
to reach sainthood but not interested enough
to pray. the spider plant never dies
because she has five perfect replicas
waiting just around the corner. i want
to have sculptures of children. little angels
poised around a dead fountain. that is likely
good enough for me. i often say
"we should" when i mean "i know we won't."
it is better that way. lies can be
less severe than they seem. in sunday school
i was always fixated on the question of
when it was okay to lie. i invented scenarios
in which the only correct action would be lying.
the spider plant on the other hand
has never lied once. he's taking his children
away from this scene. he's telling them
the hard truths about the world. you will
grow wild & rancorous just to find another leg
supposedly yours. the pots on the porch.
staring right up at the sun & learning to drink.