collect yourself

it was lake making season
or else it was the cup 
always placed to catch
the ceiling leak. letting myself
believe in rebirth today
& dreaming of coming back
as a whole colony of ants.
how that multitude might let me
sigh like i can't right now.
i love blaming all my problems
on my current form. what does anyone
make of fingers? i use mine
to scoop handfuls of sand
see how long i can hold on
until there's nothing left 
but one single grain. once 
i asked a boy to love me by
handing him a needle & a thread.
he sewed his name into my shoulder.
i keep as many vessels as i can.
a sail ship in a forever closet
& a cabinet brimming with jars.
you never know just what form
a combustion will take.
i spent a year driving 
my car in circles. wore 
a trench in the road. tires turned
to ash. another time i knit squares
for weeks onend. a tiny dead god quilt.
none of the monsters liked it 
so i tossed the stiches one by one
at passing airplanes. today i am
gnat sized & passengered. 
there are playing cards
all over the floor of my skull.
the first one i pick up 
is a jack. next a queen. 
i want to be clear that this
has never been harvest. that would mean
intention & bloom & sugar. what i do 
is collection. putting the sun
back & reminding him to scream.
voluntarily, i go without words 
for a whole week until my tongue 
is a porch light. in the glow
i pluck earrings from the carpet.
reminding all my corners 
that there is a body they know.
shelter in the wildest blues.
to tell you the truth though
i look forward to spilling.
that exhale & no more. no more bones
or borders. my self-pollination.
fruit comes like blown glass.
i get ready to eat permission
all the way to the wrist.

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