jelly jar

let's fill the starwberry 
with all our hammer heads.
the blinking street lamp
finally executed by a middle-schooler.
someone asks me, "what do you do
with all your anger?" i boil it down to
guts & seeds. steam on my glasses.
my mother would talk 
to each berry before it became
a sister. i collect the jars. harvest them
from the den of a politcian.
he feasts on paper machete birds.
before i go he tells me things are
looking up. i try to avoid talk
of the sky. the sky does not grow 
brambles or burs or grapes & blueberries.
the sky is a place birds go
to make escape plans without us.
you don't need to toast or anything.
a spoon is enough to carry a knee cap
into your mouth. sharp & sweet.
no one puckers like they used to.
a wooden spoon can be a femur 
or a family. i come with the jars.
we boil them clean & give them 
their first confessions & communions
before they are ready for the rage.
pots & pots of it. taking the sun
& rendering it a fresh scab. wiping lids.
you be the jelly & i'll be the jam
or else the jar. is there always a vessel?
carry us into the next moon. 
i scope out my insides. cup
after cup of sugar. there i am 
alongside the gooseberries &
the orange finger nails. we eat 
until we vibrate like television static.
lightning storm flosses its teeth 
on the roof tops. the quiet pop
of a jar's lid. before we feast best we can. 

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