sandpaper 

my long-term plan is to get smoother.
to buy as much sandpaper as my credit card
will let me & set to work. i will likely start
with my elbows & move on there
to my knees. i am convinced 
i could work out my edges until i might
blend into the leaves. learn how to feast
on the sun like i've always wanted. 
sand away my mouth. watch it scatter
as dust. all those words broken into
wonderfully unmanageable parts. 
we lie in bed & i worry you'll notice
the work i've been doing. i scoot away.
don't let you touch me. become a top sheet
kind of boy. when i call friends
i have stopped being honest. how can you say,
"i don't know how i'm getting through
this week." instead you say the grape-flavor words
like, "i am rough but okay" & "i am made of soft wood."
the chickens are trying to kill the smallest one again.
they peck her & i wave my arms at them.
i tell her, "you can come with me." we'll both
whittle down until we become part of the sky.
i leave you a love letter urging you to join us. 
get smooth & leave the knuckles behind. 
blue bleeding into orange. no feathers
or flesh to grow scabs. the smoothest place.
a guest room without bedding. the window 
playing a video on loop across the veil. 
it's of just before we had bones. 
when we could fill our stomachs 
with the flying kind of birds & still sleep.