the inventors of caves

speaking into the stone
the pathways came like strands
of lost hair. on the mountain,
i tried to send my ghost
to get lost down a mine shaft.
she always came back with
bundles of twigs, saying,
"the angels gave these to me."
i do not want to be a flashlight
or even a yo-yo. i want to be
a chisel & a skull in a pot
of boiling wings. the caves fill
with hard candies. my brother 
lays on his back waiting to be
mumified. i go out to the roof again
like i used to as a child
to feed a whole roasted ham to
the angels. their teeth are
pocket knives. their eyes 
rolling in starlight. i told myself
this year would be different but
here i am again with my hands
still covered in grease. still thinking,
what if we were toads in the
wild spring earth. i know i do not
want to be your rose bush anymore.
i know this deep inside
my underground rivers. 
do you remember the cave i took
you to? how we walked further
& further & the air was cool
as a fresh march day break.
stagatites formed from your face.
i saw us in every single rock formation.
imagined you leaving with out me
& me still seeing your jaws every where.
instead, we left together. the angles
dug these absences in us 
just like they did the mountains.
there is a cave where our knees
used to live. i go there to tend
their feathers. i'm not sorry anymore
but i do want to tell you i have seen them.
i've seen who made the caves in me
& they were terrifying. they were hungry.

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