cassette garden or a blue jay elegy 

play me the best version of your chlorine.
in the burial dirt behind the garage 
i planted my father's cassette tapes.
some of them were steel-tongued
& others were of him singing in the choir.
when i say no one believes me i mean
they put their ear to the soil
& hear blue jays. there are no such thing
as blue jays, only the little ice cream scoops 
of real world removed to make space
for the sky. i would burry my hands 
& run to my mother to say, "i don't have
any hands." she would go & look for them
with me even though she knew it was my fault.
is it true that we, as mice, choose 
the color of our eyes in the next life?
eating a rabbit made of chocolate. eating 
a melting bone. i learned how to play them
anywhere. put the tapes in my mouth 
& hear him saying, "come here."
scissors gliding across a ream of fabric.
i peel open. i pretend to be a machine
or else i am a machine. boom box breath.
listening to the beetles & remembering
everything is about capital 'm' men's pain.
not mine. mine is the cassette tape garden
which is also a farewell plot. a tree grew
which bore the saddest pears. i swallowed them all.
i did not want to share. church music.
ave maria. ave maria. green thumb or guiltless.
the garden cracks its back on a folding chair.
they come & find me but do not recognize me.
pull the tape out of my mouth. 
i am not your song. i am your blue jay.