benches 

during the year we died five times
i watched the benches turn
into horses. they always wanted
more than just the apple core.
i started to bring dates & honey. ankles
& a hooved moon. i went there
to sit with my bouquet of teeth 
& my heaven pill bottle. the tourists came
& took pictures of the sky.
the sky covered her face & bruised.
sometimes a hand would emerge
& puppet talk until i acknowledged him/her.
if not for my spearmint bush
we would have all starved. my green guts
& my green face. i put the dogs in my lap.
they turned ragdoll & then into papayas.
my mom would call & ask, "what does it feel like
being dead?" i would shrug. 
describe the smell of centipedes.
i invited a date once & she only talked
about wanted to fly an airplane. i bought her
one & she wept. she said, "why would
you do this to me?" i know i have
honeymoon tendencies. nectar
from the faucet. bridle on the bench.
my favorite thing to do was to sit
with dead men. they told me
to try on their clothes. fashion shows
for the morning tangerine. a mountain god.
i helped roll them into little balls
of lint. the dryer caught fire
but i kept using it. turned each dress
into ash until my skin was bare.
the dead men bent down. begged to be
new benches. i explained, "that is not
how to die." so, i showed them.
you start with the hands. left & then right.
down your throat. then, you close your eyes
until they turn into pearl in their sockets.
the rest comes easy. the breading
& the frying. the cold bench back.
the headlights carving pumpkins
in my skulls.