i am burying all the keys
in the yard. lock boxes 
full of dove children.
poking air holes so they can breathe.
i too was an egg tooth child. 
learning for myself who the sun was 
& why there were so many layers
between me & fresh air.
i borrow a hammer & smash
every digital clock in the house. 
the difference between a locked door
& a shut door is a matter 
of dirt. determination. desire.  
everything i want to tell my parents 
swims in yolks. drinking gold yellow
until it is too sick to speak.
to be a puppet is to ask
someone else to be your hands.
when my father was my hands.
when my hands were my father.  
i never wanted to have to hold on like this.
alone, my hands are pilots
& swans. i unfetter them until
they are no longer mine.
a place i used to pull over 
& give myself palm readings.
when i lived out of my car a yesterday
was a yesterday & a tomorrow 
just glittered in a grocery bag.
if i was telling the truth always
there would be no need 
for the keys or the doors
& especially not the dirt. 
instead, you will take what i give you
& be left to imagine the rest.
my father will be digging a well again
& he will find the skeleton 
of a great bird. will he know
what it means?

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