february

the onions foretold it's going to be
kind of rough. we didn't know
it was going to snow last night
& now the house is a cold femur.
snow light making the whole house glow.
i consider burning
the wooden spoon. i wonder if
you would notice. in the kitchen
in the morning dark i cut off
my hands. they lay like chayote
on the cutting board. 
they didn't turn into spiders like
i wanted. you asked last night, "what are
we going to do when the firewood
runs out?" i held your face. my fingers,
little cucumbers. i thought of 
the knive chopping them.
summer salad. i told you i am going
to steal the sun. i'm going to yank
it from its perch & then it'll be all ours.
then i was sad that so many of my dreams
involve new thievery. i want 
an unstolen feast. i want to feel 
heat from my ribs to my fingertips.
i thought maybe the spiders
could knit us a thick blanket 
or a ladder to sky. i get a ladle. 
go outside in my morning robe,
blood still dripping from my arms,
& reach to skim the cream off 
the sun. i only manage clouds. spoon in my mouth.
a vole offers to be one of my hands.
i let him. at this point,
i am open to most transformations.
you are still asleep. you are in the process
of becoming a mountain. i bring you 
a cup of coffee. i save you a morsel
of the cream. pluck a tree growing
from your back & brush the white pine needles
onto the floor. let you sleep in a little longer.
set up camp in the lowlands. 
plant my fingers & hope they grow 
a lovely bramble of knuckles
that i can use to knock on all our walls.