tick 

i have perfected the art
of extractions. i use the silver tweezers
& grab each little god by the head.
ticks, like flecks of red planet. one on
my chest & another on my thigh. 
you tell me i never talk about anything
& i know it's true. i treat my emotions
like boats without drivers. they glide
just above my head & do not stop. 
the grass has grown tall this year. 
i become more & more against the notion 
of blades. i imagine the yard as wild 
as can be. letting it eat the house. 
the ticks, knocking at the windows
like fathers. the first tick i ever got
bit just behind my knee. my father
painted it with nail polish until it fell off.
a fresh gem. i wanted to keep it.
instead we buried it like treasure. i have
for a long time been convinced that
if i said everything i meant that 
i would end up alone. my father told me
that his father would search his scalp
for ticks each night. he didn't use tweezers
to remove them; instead, he grasped
the drinkers with his hard fingernails.
held them in the bathroom light before 
burning them in a candle flame. fireworks
over a taken city. i imagine each tick
taking with it an emotion or memory.
something i did not want anyway.
pocketbooks in the dark. i usually
tear them apart but once i found one
in the morning. i assume it drank all night.
we had argued in the dark & i had gone
to sleep feeling like a twig. i tore
the creature apart. my blood on my hands.
i wiped them on my pants. rinsed
the pieces down the drain. i looked
in the mirror & saw my father for a second
& then i just saw myself.