we disagree about who sold the moon

but its absence rung 
like a bell & every family portrat 
emptied onto the floor
as piles of marbles. we were
low on cash. as a child 
i saw this happen. how a guitar
would become a cart of bread.
we ate holes in the walls 
to look for lineages. i had a vein
that grew out from my arm
& plunged into the sewer.
i don't think i would do that though.
it was you who always had
a jar of coins cradled like a son.
then again, when i look in the mirror
i see a face of clotheines. i won't
ever admit to you but i could imagine how
on the wrong night when everything 
is too loud & even the ant hills 
are playing their armageddon music
that i could reach up 
& see just a bowl of pear.
melting into their sweetness.
goodbye mother, i might think
as i watch the moon turn into 
a plastic bag of cinnamon rolls.
there is not enough sweetness.
the waves do not know what to do
with their longing. the night sky
is a plate of cherry pits.
i do not want to kiss you. i do not want
to kiss you anymore. 

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