monkey's paw

wishing the moon red,
we stood on the porch
covered in a phantom blood.
pickled the fireflies. salvaged light.
my limb went missing & the whole family
is pretending to look for it. 
i'm begging everyone
to admit to it's existence.
they ask, "was it a hand?"
"was it a foot?" i shake my head.
i am a feather duster.
i am a morgue flower. i do not remember
how or why i was able 
to climb onto the roof. 
luck is not a place to dance.
it is a place to cover your eyes.
a turning mote. coal mine 
of goats. they get on their hands
& knees. run fingers along the baseboards.
there is no knuckle. no shoulder.
just a house of monkeys
eating their dinner nectar. 
monkeys in the cabinets & monkeys
in the garage. i imagine harvesting
that limb from them. replacing it 
on myself. transplant desire.
once my mother asked me
why i wanted 
to mutilate my body.
i sobbed into a lemon
& then ate the lemon whole.
the paw is not a real place.
it is just a myth of conservation.
that the gone parts will return
full of promise. make a wish
on my teeth. i pluck them out
one by one. my family has
given up looking. they watch
a television game. glow of the screen.
blood comes from the ceiling.
first just a patch & then a downpour.
we all ignore it. soon it will clot 
& scab & we will just be standing here.