no licorice 

when the fiberglass house was crush
until the weight of my gender
i had to spend years plucking thorns
from my gums. once, we had a shrine
to the television. we fed her every quarter 
but she always only wanted their faces. 
chicken in the oven. chicken in the yard.
a peacock calls & demands a pizza delivery man
for a lover. the way they will tell you,
"hard work" with pockets full of remotes.
the way you can apply for a future. the way
the future is strangled by shoe laces
& dangled from the telephone wire.
the phone book but every name is my own.
calling yourself & he is not picking up.
on a night like this we should be drinking
flower tea. we should be speaking softly
to angels & pleading for a bit
of the holy honey. as we walk in the forest
i tell you, "i need to go & pet the moss."
this is my equivalent of going to touch grass
which i actually think is something more people
should try to do. my father made replicas 
of our family out of beer bottles. our fun house faces
in the bend of the glass. they're going
to say, "we're all family here" & i'm going to say
"so we all have secrets?" if i had a bag of licorice
to eat i would. i would not share even if
it was labeled "sharable size." the nods
we make to one another with language.
"i see you are too big to fit your own life.
here is some sugar." the landline is displeased
that we no longer touch her. she talks to her own
umbilical cord. she says, "he is a monster."
i let her say what she has to tell herself. 
haven't you ever found comfort in staring
at someone through their bedroom window?
there, you think, there is a little ghost.