comet

like a comet 
i burn a hole through my mother. 
i draw a crowd. everyone with
their nighttime clothes.
some in robes & others
in sequins. how do you
lay yourself down? 
what are your bones made of
now that we are fuel
for the orbit?
we were all standing on the roof
& listening to a television.
the news announced 
that this moment comes around
only once every thousand years.
we will not see our own burning
again like this. instead 
the blues will have to be stolen
from beneath the tongues
of the crows. come with me.
i have a patch. i tell her,
"i love you like oil loves."
like the slick belly of an iron pan
but also like a tomb
marked only by a "x" in the ground.
the comet is not a comet
but a bird. the stars are not stars
but insects glowing 
& waiting for the right moment
to eat everything they came for. 
you can sew the wound shut
but it will always grin
back at you in the candy mirror.
when i say i burn
i mean i am coming back
in a thousand years.
all our blood, still here,
still rupturing our mother's hunger
for a daughter. 
waiting for the news to say,
"it is time to grow gills.
it is time to go back 
to the swamp of eyelids 
& telephone darkness." 
i point to the light in the sky.
we watch as it comes & goes.