motion activated light

i will know when you're home.
the geese will cut off their heads
& their bodies will fly south.
i don't have to tell you it's winter.
dead trees. coiled-fist leaves.
the television will spit rotten strawberries
from its mouth. i will not be able
to sleep. starting at the door
with an axe in my hand. 
for me the past is a place full 
of hay. mold & dampness. 
the driveway of my parent's house
used to have a lamp that spat light
when i returned. it pulled a shadow
from my shoulders like taffy.
trucks going way too fast 
down the country road. road kill machines.
the rabbits would trip the light too.
their little skeletons. once, a rabbit
who was struck by a car. the rabbit limped
& then turned into a bible. 
i have a hard time being holy
even if i'm dying. i brought carrots
to the bible. i prayed the rabbit would return.
tripping the light over & over.
you, my father, yelling, "stay still."
i froze in the glow. waited for the light
to stop. convinced myself i could
move so slowly the sensor
could not see me. i crawled 
for hours the short distance back home. invisible.
i felt accomplished. i know by the taste
of the water. the milk in the sky.
you always slammed doors. did you do that
to trip the light? did you look
for your shadow? did you pause
in the driveway & marvel at it?
when you are home i do not want to be.
i slip myself into the darkness
& make prayers to rabbits & doorknobs.
you are not home not at all. a home
is defined as your absence. here,
the lights do not search for bodies.
here, it is just my bones & my myriad of shadows.
i sit outside on a tree stump by the ghost moon.
headless geese fly overhead.