juniper

there is nothing really left to burn.
in my dream a juniper tree grows
inside the closet. i do not tell you
about my secret ghost. i arrive there
only when you are in the yard or
when you are washing your face
in the bathroom. i tell the tree
everything i am too afraid to tell you.
once, a teacher told me that 
when you write a story no two characters
should love each other the same.
one should always love the other more.
i have never been able to make peace
with this reality. i find branches
to burn. i pluck an eyelash out 
& use it as the wick in a candle.
i am unsure what is the dream
& what are my night worlds.
the juniper tree talks in the baby voice
of a kite. air beneath her tongue.
she says that if i leave the closet door open
she would be happy to take over our bedroom.
fill the floor with berries & needles.
so much smoke to be made. so much ash.
i know very little about cleansing
though once i spit up a dove
after eating the largest meal 
of my life. i am always trying 
to rid myself of something. does anyone
live whole? when i see a stained glass window
i always want to live there. fragments
glued in place & legible. 
i burn the juniper in the morning
when no one else is awake but the cats.
they asked me if my tongue
is also made of wood. they laugh.
it is a joke i do not understand. 
the dream ends & there is nothing 
left to burn. i chop off my tongue
& find it is true. it is made of wood.
you return. you ask me where 
i have been. i pull my eyes out like drain stoppers.
spill onto the floor. you say,
"where are you?" but i am right here.