vine talking

wallpapering my childhood
in the room where i cried
for a glass of light.
i remember a balcony & the library
where you tried to get me
to worship god. how our coffee
tasted like subways. the drive
on the jersey turnpike where
all water became grease.
sleeping in the back seat of
your onward. i have been married
so many times i can't keep track.
most recently to the styrafoam anger 
you grew like mushrooms. before that
was the rocks on the ocean.
bride & bride & bride. i burried 
a squirrel skull in the yard
when i divorced my dorm room.
species can emerge from
the most volatile terrain.
snakes as green as pine
stealing their emerald from 
a jewlery box. writing
"holy is the stone lion" 
on the ceiling while i try to read.
when the moon is covered 
with vines like this i appears
as a pear in a mesh bag
or maybe a captured blue crab.
language is all about who 
fishes & who eats & who cannot. 
are you eating all the vowels & vows?
i am not. at least not yet. 
saved by the uncombed future.
i ask if the moon wants
to be cut free & you tell me
"no that's not what she wants."
you cut off my thumbs 
& plant them in a dummy book.
you say, "this is where 
our bell will grow."