clouds in the attic

i teach my tongue how to fly
by watching the crows 
in the alley. send each appendage 
to it's private heaven. i am cutting
as many holes in the wall
as i can. picture me as a vapor.
picture me as a body spray.
i crawl on hands & knees up the stairs.
i am only six year olds & in the living room
my father is making monster noises.
the clouds speak with voices 
knit from spider webs & ice cream.
vanilla warble. a mummified bird.
i sit in the clouds & talk about 
meteor showers. ask them if they remember
what killed the dinosaurs. they insist 
defensively that they had no part in that.
they don't understand i'm not accusing them,
i'm trying to learn if i might dissapear 
the exact same way. history has
a way of doing sommersalts
that turn into tires down the back
of a mountain. the clouds are by far
my favorite guardians. they say,
"look at me, i'm now a hippo"
& "look at me i'm fractured skull."
they feed me jewels. brush my hair.
then, hold my hand 
to walk me back downstairs. i ask,
"when will i be allowed to separate my body
into so many beads?" the clouds lie to me.
they did not say, "never" they say,
"elsewhere. elsewhere you will be like us." 

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