mashed potato igloo
i crawled into the snow's
lost weather. sold my neck
for a chance at roots. took our trowels
out to the middle of the guest room
where my grandmother's ghost
refuses to sleep. in the future
there will be a spoon large enough
for all my ancestors
to curl up on. one bite away
from never having to talk about it again.
if only union was this instant.
clockwise as god intended. i remember
arriving with an empty bag
of confetti--wishing a gift
would grow inside. i had three weddings
only in the past year. wearing white,
i held the butter tray. how this knife
can mean nothing at all. profiles
of gods. i needed even the moon
pureed. gravy doesn't come until
it's just me alone with my egg timer.
spinning the wait. owl-headed,
i'm looking out for the valley of forks.
how could i be so old? the table
lengthens each year until it presses
against opposite walls. soon the house
wil pop open. i won't / will be there
when it does. as for refuge,
there is always to tunnel within.
to be carried on a fine china plate
towards your father's stomach.
it's harder & harder to be full.
we fold our hands. my brother