glass moose 

there was a man in the house last night.
i fed him stinky bugs & told him
he is not my father. what are the phrases
you say only to yourself? i have a cabinet
in my pelvis where all the deep dark lives.
i find animals without organs & cherubs 
bearing the face of my grandfather. 
when i walk with a cane i become
a fresh mammal. one from a bestiary
ready to fight any corner-man. 
in the house though i play
"the floor is lava." i tell the man 
he can stay as long as he doesn't mention
my cabinet. i have a video call with a monster.
the monster is demanding licorice.
in the weeks after i cut off my hair 
i would find it again like a gutted animal
all over the bathroom. it is funny how
the past is just an onion layer. how everything
is made of glass. trees & teeth & bone.
once, i was walking in my father's empty beer glass
& i saw a moose there. it was jurassic & huge.
i tried to shoot it. shatter it & bring it home.
doesn't everyone want to be
a son bringing home meat? instead 
i saw through the animal & there was 
nothing but carrots on the other side.
a garden so fat & ripe i couldn't pull the trigger.
is there greener grass or is there just
an animal so large i only shows you
what you want to see. don't fight
the clouds because you'll never win.
you'll be wrestling & the blood will get away
& then you will be so so cold. i tell the man,
"will you leave by morning?"
my voice is full of nettle & knots. 
he does not respond. takes a lighter
from his pocket & warms his tongue. 
in the end though he does listen.
there is nothing but a shattered glass
on the floor when i wake up. 
i get on my knees to clean it up with the dust pan.
for a second, flinch, thinking
my father is the man or the moose.
that he's going to strike me
like a bell & say, "look at what you've done."