firework harvest

when was the last time your father
was your father? i was at a county fair
& i was a snail. he held me in his hand
& said, "i love my daughter."
sometimes a touch is a site
of fire. i watch the man run
with his red flaming baton 
to light the bed posts & send them 
into the sky. why has it taken me
so long to remember exactly 
all the places i have been severed?
once in a poetry workshop
a classmate lamented
"nothing has ever happened
to me" by which they meant,
"how am i supposed to write poetry
without trauma?" the truth is 
the county is fair is a place we've all been.
everyone has a father like mine.
one without eyes when it's convenient.
when you realize the truth 
is a lemon tree you have to buy 
a shovel. you have to go & talk
to the snails you once were.
rid yourself of salt. when was
the last time you begged? 
i don't enjoy the word "trauma"
i think it's used too broadly
to mean "bruising." i don't have
trauma i have a firework harvest.
i have a fire i walk with in my hands
& anything could light the sky up
with a flash of sound. i love my father
even though he one ate me
like funnel cake. once licked
his fingers. how is a girl supposed to
resist turning into a snail?
i watched the fireworks with him.
i always watch
the fireworks with him. 
gold & red & green. i swore once
i saw one that was blue
but maybe it was just
a ribbon cake. do not limit
the ways you write. do not believe
for one second that pain
is delicious. it is electric.
it is enduring & edible. 
i want to tell my classmate,
"would you like to borrow
my father?"