tea cup ride

i was the laughing texture family.
my father wore the greyest suites 
even on vacation. there was a camera
with fish-net legs that followed me
into the amusement park bathroom 
& told me it would all soon be over.
i covered my face. 
a part of me relished 
the ride's disorientation,
as if stirring me could unravel 
the future of knotted hair 
& brackish tongues. i had white socks.
the sun was made of sandpaper.
we all stared down at a hammer
in the middle of the walkway & said
"oh no, that's not mine." could we all fit
inside the tea cup? every time i brew 
early grey, i pretend my father 
is inside the tea bag. whirling,
i give in to blur. crave a smeared brother.
ruined horizons. wish my body had 
less outlines & more colors.
neon tangled heart. lungs made 
of helium balloons. taking our shoes off
when we get home, my toes scurry away 
& slip between floorboards.
what do you mean "we are almost there?"
a street sign bends in the wind.
i watch a sky scraper faint. 
we all have the one chipped tooth
from where we let the children enter.
let's go again, i know what to expect now.
nighttime falls & we are still here.
my father is impatiently waiting
for a star to slip & fall & smash open.
i twiddle my thumbs like i saw someone do
on tv. we are also on tv. a little girl 
watches us & asks if she can go 
to the amusement park next year.
i try to take a sip from the tea cup
& burn my tongue. inside the tea bag
are a pile of penny loafers. 
my father's old shoes. 
i add honey & blow steam 
from the surface.