sun stain

give me the first teeth again
& i'll write you the hymnal 
of pterodactyl flight. i'm letting the attic
ripen a certain prophecy. all in all,
i never meant to be the scribe. i always meant
to draw pictures of everything i saw:
a father with a closet full
pilot helmets. chrome crossword puzzles.
mom in the car on the way
to another planet again. 
my brothers & i discover we can
leave our mouths open & let the sun
color our insides with crayons. 
i was taught to whittle my sadness into
a useful shape. i make mine today into
a miniature tree. the tree catches 
on fire. funny how quickly a coping mechanism
can become a little disaster. i go to where
the bird's return their feathers.
they will be born again as fish or
if they're lucky, tigers. 
i watch every day as the room turns 
inside out. my little salted snail life.
the sun sends a bushel of rats 
to eat holes in my plot. i don't tell 
any more truths. i know they will
crumble from exposure. instead, i just recite 
a litany of screen doors. let time 
walk around with an apple for a face. 

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