toy catalog

i opened the bird in the mail 
& she said, "you want more than you have."
i took toy catalogs to my room
where i gave them halos. circles
around each desire. a clothe doll
& a robot dinosaur. i hardly ever
got the trinkets i pined for 
but it was a relief to have
a place to hold that hunger. i wish i still got 
catalogs in the mail so that i could
have a yearning shrine.
a catalog full of new toys. these would
be angels & a front door without fissures.
a pair of knees. an easy night with
one great snake. then i could
carry the pages like a dead bird.
burry it beneath the cedar alongside
the quails who did not live long enough.
i make lists but they are never alive. 
we used to plan our future 
on the whiteboard behind the bedroom door.
the lists there are now a year old.
they grow moss. the words turn
into worms. i sometimes take walks
& pretend i will return to an easier life. 
i open the mailbox on the way home 
& there is a toy catalog curled up. 
i do not open it. i place it right into
the recycling where she beats
her wings. all the halos come together
to become orbits. laps around 
a beautiful place. i tell the portal
in the roof, "there is nothing else i need."