razor blade forest
 
i am almost never tender to myself. 
i put the leash on 
& have a telephone walk me 
through the razor blade forest
until i am ribbon. driving,
i look up to a billboard & i see
my face selling a bottle of ketchup.
i didn't consent to this
but sometimes our faces go off
& do crime without us. 
i try to imagine what gentleness 
could look like. a fridge of only butter.
a microwaved marshmallow 
eaten with my hands. i used to be
an altar boy & my favorite role 
was ringing the bell. in the sacristy 
the priest would turn into 
a statue & ask us children 
to name our favorite ice creams.
my dreams turn to pastels & smudge off
the more i try to show them around.
when does a hand become
a corkscrew? how have i always
come open so easily. in the closet
i do at least keep a flock of mourning doves.
i feed them cough drops & iced tea.
they sing & ask, "tomorrow?" 
i shake my head & close the door.
it is not tomorrow yet. i open
the door again just a crack 
to promise, "soon."