leather 

i relearn my body often.
pluck out my eyelashes 
& stare at them until they turn
into little wooly worms. 
pot my fingers. grow trees that bear hands
like peaches. always fists.
i tell you i am sorry for being
so angry today. we are driving
on a piece of fruit leather. you are
a socket puppet & so am i.
there is a throat inside me
telling me to get out get out get out. 
i do not know if the voice means 
out of my life or my body
or if there is a difference. my shoes 
are made of leather which means
they have died before. 
i count my eyes. i find twelve.
flush three down the toilet
like dead goldfish. i wish you saw me
the way you used to. 
it was summer. the grass was just
decapitated. sun with a mouthful
of glowsticks. we never slept.
turned into fires & followed each other's smoke.
when i am on fire i will
do anything to feed the flames.
bookshelves & a television & the window
we took with us when we escaped.
i find the skeleton of a whale
piled in the bathtub & i know it is my fault.
i rip the curtain off the metal bar
in an attempt to cover it up.
you are out in the yard 
holding funerals for the garlic. 
the bathroom mirror is a good liar.
it tells me, "you are here."
i shake my head. the whale turns over
in her sleep. i whisper,
"i do not think i am."