in the jungle of fathers

a telephone is a machete.
all plants spit bottle caps 
instead of seeds. i am just
a daughter-son. to be a child
is to always be searching
for a talisman to age you.
or, at least, this is how i lived.
cutting down brush asking
"hello?" as if a father might
empty himself at any moment.
i am in his wallet. i am 
a wooden bicycle in his garage.
the car stares with gem-cut eyes.
kneeling in rich soil
to look for a purity ring.
he checks my glass self.
breaths to fog the surface.
we would eat & talk as if
he wasn't the whole fucking forest.
forks in tree necks. a paradise bird
who says, "he's home,
he's home." when will i get to be
a commander? which is to say
when will i get to be my father?
this is not something 
i actually desire but i want
to step through it like a membrane.
eating the depth's overripe fruit.
sick on orange. he has every antidote.
syrup on my hands. i am 
an evidence machine. here i was
here i was here i was.
he tells the canopy he is busy.
puts his hand on my back,
plucks out a single vertabrae 
from my spine to use 
as a nut. says, "you asked
for this body, did you not?"