when my fingers were tangerines
i kept a heart of needles
to pull from. chopped down a tree
& feasted on the wood.
where do you keep your smallness
& your sturdy need to mend?
i tear holes in the ceiling
just to fish for stars.
squid as bait. waiting on a dock
made of thread. on days like this
i look back on my life in a planetarium.
thousands of miles away a girl
is trying to sew a mountain.
or else she is crossing a highway
to look down at the town
with binoculars made of dead fish.
wine glasses repurposed as
snake burials. she believes she can
one day sew all of her clothes
from nothing but dead birds.
finds a dead deer to crawl inside.
warmth is something earned.
opening a window to let all the newts in.
they sprawl out & drink heat.
my life fits in a trunk.
underneath a staircase. in the basement
next to boxes of mildew adorned
holidays decorations. there,
i find a single black thread bobbin.
place it under my tongue.
the next person to hear me
will have their feet stitched
into the downy floor of my orbit.
i want to be loved by
a complete stranger. i want them
to carry my little voice
in the wallet until the day
they are dead birds too.