pluck

when i say "one at a time"
i'm talking about feathers
not eyebrows. there are so many birds
to un-bird & i don't have any time.
what is the point of waking up
when you still have all your hair intact?
i find it hard to make peace with
scrambled eggs. was i not the yellow?
i think a turkey would be a good mascot
for america but at least eagles
are able pluck-able. we all take turns
with the bird like a pinata,
each of us hoping to pull
the final feather. beneath
pink flesh screams like a pillow.
when we're done the bird will 
disappear from our minds
like the bowl of cotton balls.
i used to trade eyelashes for dimes
from a man who lived inside a tree trunk.
to uproot the whole fire,
you need a blessing from ground water. 
i point to my mouth & ask to be
fed the remnant. a personal 
garden is waiting inside my face.
swallowing the gate's key. i don't know
if i plan on growing back. invisible holes.
turkeys roam wild. catching song birds
in a net like tuna. in life 
you're either the feather collector
or the feathered & i am not yet sure
which one i am. maybe we're all both.
i cannot remember the color of hair
that used to bloom from my scalp.
now it's just down feathers. soft 
& white & easy to remove.
handful after handful. what to do
with the turkey feathers but
make a monument out of them.
a plaque reads "here is where we go
to remember our hands." i stole 
one feather & keep it in my closet.
when i open the door it dances.
dust on the floor. my eyebrows,
like cliffhangers. i lean so close
to the mirror it becomes a pond.
tell me when it's april again.
i need that certain light.