speckled carpet

the carpet in my parents' house
is the home of prophets.
i have laid there on my back
to listen to them. whenever i've been sick
my impulse is to crawl to the floor.
i remember when it was new & soft.
now it's worn away. you can see where
we've cut our deer paths. 
it always smells slightly
like stars & sugar & grass &
dandruff & black pepper. 
they chose the speckled pattern
so it would hide our spirits better.
little gods with their thumb-sized hats.
at my sickest i spent a day there
pretending my ribs
were gills & that i could breathe 
underwater. i was so hungry that
i ate clouds from the ceiling.
in the carpet there are hieroglyphs.
there are ancient words for,
"i am dying & i don't want 
to stop it." once, in the middle 
of the night, my mother 
woke me up. the house was
on fire but only we could see it.
i begged her, "we have to save
the carpet." i took a box cutter
& scrambled to the floor.
she said, "there is no time."
we stood in the yard until morning
while all the men slept soundlessly.
the house was still standing 
with the sun. i have never asked her,
"what was the point in escaping?"
 when i return the languages are older.
the tongues that the divine speaks in
come in spirals. staircases down.
i speak back into them
with my flimsy mouth. i say,
"i want to join you one day."
sleep beneath a carpet loop
like beneath a bridge. the water flows.
i have never asked anyone else
what they hear when they lay
on the floor. i did catch my brother once.
he was laying face down
like road kill. splayed out. 
convening with the speckled carpet. 
maybe one day i'll ask him,
"did you see us running 
from the house? did you see
the blaze like we did?"