recitation

i used to take out part of my skull
& store wind up birds inside.
we walked up main street
on a cold march evening
to read poetry to each other. 
plastic wrapped brownies. to be a child
is to never understand 
that you are a child. the way 
a tongue can divide. can serve
as an oar. i could talk us into anything.
into walking in the graveyard afterwards
& standing by the creek 
when the water was black as the sky.
telling you that stars taste like blueberries
even though i have never eaten one.
you would pluck out strands of your hair
& weave them together to form a cord.
you said, "one day it will be long enough
for me to break out our of your life."
the basement had fireflies that lived there
somehow year round. i don't remember
what any of my poems were about then.
i always thought of my self 
as a prophet. preaching to
the early march wild onions.
to the ragged grass of the graveyard. to the
wayward moon we used as a mirror.
you told me we were never going
to get any older. you told me we were
going to live inside this night
until our bones were feathers.
we both knew the sun had other plans
& at some point everyone runs out
of poems to read. 
while it lasted, we told the truth. 
i showed you only once
how to poem my face. 
there, the wind up birds were writing,
stringing metaphors like garland.
you asked, "is that how you stay alive?"
i said, "it is the only way i know how."