several portraits of the dining room table

there is a head we are about to eat
as if it were a turkey. all of my poems
are about meals if you look hard enough.
you get to decide whose head it is. 
i am hoping it is someone evil though
i am told to devour is to become. maybe
it is too late for me anyway. i dream of cork. 
of floating museums. a chain link god. 
there are bills from before i turned into
an ugly crow to join the mountain. there is
a fork that has never once been cleaned.
it is a tuesday & no one is ready. the door
folds into a flower. we all bend down to sniff it
just to have our ears cut off. the chairs got out
& now we have to go & chase them 
with the lasso & the cow pokers. they 
are hungry for soybeans & corn. we are all
still hungry. in my house we never use
the table for dinner. i heard someone who
i don't respect once say, "families who eat 
together are less likely..." & i didn't listen
to the rest. she was trying to say we were bad
for watching television & having
nothing to talk about. sometimes you will say,
"tell me a story" & i want to talk
about the kitchen table. about the stains.
the wings it grows when you are the only one
awake. how i have slept beneath the table
when the house almost collapsed under
the weight of a particularly nasty star.
my father puts his shoes on the table. we eat
his shoes. they taste like the head which tastes
like the turkey. everything is free until it is not.
until there is a table. until the door returns 
& knocks on itself all night. i have always been
starving. the head is satisfying. is worth it. 
paper napkins. an overflowing trash can.
a letter from a neighbor that reads nothing but,
"can i please?" look at the window
to see them all perched in the tree. crows. 
i cover my face. i don't have time today.
we lock the doors. go to sleep beneath the table. 
everything is cold but we are dogs so it is expected.