if i saved all my father's bottlecaps 

i would not build a house with them. i would
also not devour them though i would want to.
the only thing that makes life worth living
is eating with your hands. sometimes i sit 
on the floor & feel a lot better
about the crumbling state of the empire.
it's not like it was good anyway but 
when everything is the right
kind of shiny you can get lost. you can think
you are going to feast on really sweet mirrors. 
the bottle caps that i do have are souvenirs 
from times he tried
to eat me with his hands. i'm not suggesting he's
zeus or anything but he does have
some tendencies. honestly, all fathers are
at one point or another, zeus. i would consider
making a road out of them. i would consider
taking that road & pathing a way to reach
the moon. i wouldn't tell anyone else 
about it. then i would sit up there
& see how long i could hold my breath.
most of my favorite childhood moments
were with my dad. he was tossing bottle caps
& we were listening to them "ping"
as they hit the driveway. i decide they were
each a little bell. my partner doesn't like bells
so i avoid ringing them but 
when he is still asleep i will go outside 
& ring one. it always turn into a bottlecap
in my hands. a parent is both themself 
& their ghost. whoever they used to be
when you were small & searching. 
i guess i am still small & searching. my favorite
caps where them black ones. laughing 
sometimes my father would put them
over his eyes. he would grimace 
& i would laugh because i did not know
what else to do. his monster face. 
the i-am-not-here face. if i had all of them
it would be too much to bear. i would 
have to call a doctor. i would have
to call my brother & i know he wouldn't 
pick up. maybe i could lay in them.
feel their cool surfaces against my skin.
it would be best if it were summer & i were
on the moon & no one else was awake.
then maybe i could forgot the terrible parts.
my father's hands. a mouth in each palm.
so hungry. i don't think i would be able
to get rid of them. my lover might beg me.
might say, "there are too many."
i come from a lineage of hoarders.
of people who hold on because if we
let go, what else will we have left to remember
what happened to us?