organ movers 

i call from the yellow pages 
of my back teeth. i say,
"i have a body. come quickly."
think of my brother standing
in his altar boy robes & myself too.
how morning in a church enters 
like a sleeping shark. blue wound.
peach bathroom soap. the priest
would ask for help taking off 
his robes. my hands grazing
his paper towel skin. 
i expect a van of men as organ movers. 
instead a hoard of vultures enter 
to take apart the machine 
pipe by pipe. the church sings
with blue jays in her teeth.
for people like me a church is a place
of lock picking to try to remember
a self. confessional. pour out 
every sin. drinking metal water
from the fountain as the priest 
turned his mouth into a geiger counter. 
they fly away with bolts & brass.
pedal by pedal the instrument.
my heart humming. my lungs,
two moths waiting to smash their skulls
against a light. when they are done
there is a hollow space in the church
where the creature used to be.
stained glass glow. i do not trust
a single one of my memories. to help them
i give them hard candies & i tell them
"do not stop talking." the vultures perch
just outside the doors. feast on 
every untangled note. the guts 
of the animal spilled in the tall grass
beside the corn field.