a car drives through the window

so all of a sudden we are in
a theater. come & sit & eat hair with us.
break bones with us. set the television
on fire & weep with us.
it is winter so we will have to get blankets
if we are going to attend
to the hole. the hole is not just
the fracture where siding & drywall 
gave way to headlights. it is also
the hole that widens beneath our tongues.
i feed the hole flowers & all of the pictures
of myself before i got a lip piercing.
it is like seeing a sea monster. the truth is
i hope it happens again. i home 
the cars come like elephants 
& open the house as wide as it will go.
that the roof will turn into beetles
& the moose arrive with all their ancient hunger.
i have a need for horizons with zippers.
a place to hide the wanting
that always comes back louder
& with my fingers. i tuck provisions there too:
morsels of turkish delight & candied walnuts. 
my father is always driving the car.
shattered glass. his black hair turned 
grey. i want to keep a lock of it.
he is alright not nothing else is.
i want to wake you up but you sleep through
the whole thing. the crash & the reckoning 
& even the sweets on my tongue
while i wait for another car to smash 
through the window too. i try to prepare.
to lessen the impact. ghouls in the kitchen
taking advantage of the opening. i gather what i can.
a pillow? a mouth guard? a spaghetti strainer?
i know, as always, it will be my father driving.
the headlights, like fish tin lids. his eyes, two holes.