inflatable mattress lover

i can leave whenever you want.
i am always one breath away
from a suitcase lung.
an accumulation of shoes.
we laid until the floor met us again.
bags upon bags of party favors. 
a wedding inside a thimble. we loved
each other like raspberries. the urgent flock.
birds without eyes searching for a zipper.
i take off my hands in times like this.
i weep & pretend i cannot drive at night.
route 222 is backed up to our throats 
& so we walk the corn fields.
find ourselves asleep with the doll heads
in the schoolhouse garden. 
if i tell you i want to be kept it is a lie.
instead, i want the vessel to be full
whether it is with water-glassed eggs
or peppers or a two-headed boy. 
we did not have a pump so my soul emptied
into the tires. get me home. please get me
home. you split wood in the dark. 
missing, you slice the moon. now, just
a stump. i have been told you can
teach a tree to return. bring toys 
& family pictures. ask, "who were your ancestors?"
the fire walks on the roof. black walnuts 
come as guillotines. the drop. 
my stomach full of fish. i try to read
your lips by the ghost light of an orphaned star.
i am packing myself up. i am leaving 
& i do not know where i am. 
then, all the air is gone. replaced 
with aquarium pebbles. i did not want
to sleep in this room again. i wanted 
my childhood but everyone green.
an open window so the bats can return. 
the moon limps. you stroke my head. 
sacrifice an owl to feed to bed. it's enough
for us to float. you ask me,
"do you ever rest?"