weeds 

i have at least a hundred siblings
if we're counting all the weeds
in my parent's yard. sometimes my father will
go through a phase of trying
to pull us all up. he'll work 
with his bare hands. dandelion boys
& crab grass girls. we spit our eyelashes 
into the dirt. more & more of us.
sometimes i feel sympathetic to him.
we'll go on a car ride & i'll forget 
everything about my body & we will
just be twin rootless cedars.
i want to ask him if he remembers 
the weed killer. if he remembers 
all the times my eyes came as potato bugs.
he thinks he's trying to save us.
the graveyards we have. the times
i have tried to tell him, "this is not
how i want to be loved." what did he think
he was doing in the shower with the curtain
made of butter? who did he think
i was? there was one night 
in a mcdonalds parking lot
where he left us there & we became 
the asphalt breakers. the churches of crows.
now, when i visit i go first to the yard
to talk to the others. i ask, "how many
are we now?" they answer with all
different numbers. i make the promises 
to leave as many of my teeth as i can.
how lonely do you get from you blood?
he sends me a blank letter.
all that is in the envelop is dandelion tufts.
my old hair or else another siblings.
i cannot tell us apart.