pawpaw skin

in the spoon graveyard there are not enough
gravediggers. i take a shift every monday
because that's when the most birds fall
from the sky. more than hald of them have a human tooth
lodged in their core. it is debated whether or not
gravediggers are owed the tooth or if it should
be laid to rest along with the remaining bones.
i go back & forth. a pocket full of teeth.
sometimes it bites me when i go looking
for a tissue. there is a pawpaw tree that hangs her head.
i pick the rotten ones from her feet. they feel
like livers & lungs. i suppose if you were in
a pinch, you could use them that way.
each of their seeds, a tooth. there is a legend 
that if you swallow one you will hear the earth weep
& it will turn you into a pawpaw tree too.
i am careful when i eat their honey flesh.
finger through skin. soft & prone to bruising
just like mine. the trees sometimes ask me
"why do you come here to the spoon graveyard?
aren't you in love?" i never answer because i don't know
what to tell them. we all find our own ways
to try & escape ourselves. 
the work goes quick. sun turning dolphin.
up & down. the graves broadcasting television static
into the air. i get five political phone calls.
i call one back to tell them, "it is monday
have some respect for the dead." i do this just
to shake them up. everyone knows that the dead own
every day same as the living. the shovel 
removes dirt. splits a pawpaw in half. all the teeth.
the hungry birds. one, too hurried, 
consumes a seed. i step back & cover my face.
the destruction is alarming. to watch the feathers
burst & the organs turn into fruit. 
i have seen it once & that was enough of me.
a new tree. a new grave. walking the grounds
to find each organ. planting them too. bird trees
& people trees. tomorrow i will go back
to answering emails from god & microwaving 
my eyes until they're ready. for now though
the sun is caramel. the pawpaw trees are ripe.
there are still birds.