tree tapping 

i drink all the flowers out 
from a hole in your neck.
when you became a pilot
i had you fly me to the sun
day after day. i miss the street
where the census taker came
to ask our names. he was a short man
with an onion smell. he held
his pencil up to count the houses.
in the hours after you worried
that you shouldn't have told him
you were a girl. gender is a footprint
in the mouth of a wild timeline. 
i bought a kit to try & tap the trees.
i wanted syrup. i wanted to have
my teeth ringing with sugar.
nothing ever came out. i ran my finger
around the rim. it seemed sticky but
it might have just been the lingering
humidity of the kneeling year. you parked
the plane on the roof. i begged you
to stay & let me fill my mouth
with peonies & roses. a single knife
sleeping in the drawer. the trees holding on
to their blood. i guess i had not
earned it. did not listen to what 
the maple wanted & craved. instead, i thought
only of taking. of the relief it would be
to see amber pouring from a spigot. 
when i turned the radio on i heard you.
your voice was made of fiberglass 
& a baseball bat. i am sick of people
mulling over what is & isn't love. 
sometimes love is hungry & selfish. 
i woke up once with a tree tap
in my side. so much sugar came out. i closed
my eyes & let it happen. woke up feeling
like a lone cloud in a stone soup sky.
the plane was gone. the trails through
cut the morning blue. a rippled scar.