nail gun crucifixion 

my father built our house from eyelashes.
there are pictures of him nailed to the frame.
head like a cantaloupe. 
the "can't" in cantaloupe repeats 
until we are all discouraged by the rain.
when i would say the "our father"
i always thought of my father. i used to
tell everyone in second grade that he was
in the beetles & that "nowhere man" was his song.
there are ways this is true. i remember him
showing me exactly how he did it.
nail gun to his hand. the fresh wood.
"exhale" he said & the nail went right through flesh.
then, he showed me how to pry it out
with the ugly hammer tooth.
i go out to the store & by my own nail gun.
tell everyone i know, "i am building 
a replica" & no one asks "of what"?
either they already know i am craving
smaller & smaller version of my parent's home
or else they don't want to know. 
it is better to leave your friends 
to their own rituals unless you are invited.
i discover my hands already have scars
where a nail would go. crucifixion is 
much more common than you would think.
my first lover had been crucified too.
i remember dipping my fingers 
in the still-bloodied well of their palms.
do not mistake your awe for worship.
i do not actually believe in god or jesus 
or even really my father. or even really
the house i grew up in. sometimes we are just
reenactors trying to find a seam.
i want to know if there is a divine 
in there somewhere. if i took a sledge hammer
to the walls of my childhood home,
how many versions of my father 
i would find there.