throat garden

i heard about you in the throat garden.
everyone was talking about the time
you cut off your hands & they turned 
into gila monsters. i bought feeder fish
from the pet store for my turtle who would
become part of the garden when
she ran away during a lightning storm.
the whole sky was a bruise & she sung
about the water that kept her & the water
that made her. i hope someday to become
part of the garden too. for better or for worse
i love to talk. i could complain all day.
people will visit my throat when they want
to really bitch about something &
i'll say "yeah, yeah, yeah" to egg them on.
you need someone to cosign your fury sometimes.
in the garden no one is whole which is
a relief after a life of having to pretend.
instead, we talk in fragments. build
a stained glass language where every word 
means what it needs to. everyone said 
we would make great lovers. i found your mouth
& threw pennies in, making wishes. 
you love the taste of metal &/or blood. 
sometimes we take turns being
the throat. you be the tongue & i'll be
a song. the throats can be long & sometimes
surprisingly shallow. i once stuck my foot in
to test the waters. sounds of holy bells
& fingerless moons. i find the shallow water
always warmer. more suited to floating
on my back & nibbling at the clouds.
let's just stay here. i can bring you all 
the pockets you want. we can talk until
there are no more words left, all of them used
& sitting like wrappers at our feet. 
then i can be a throat too. a place to visit.
for a stranger to nestle inside of after
a long day of trying to be legible 
in a toothless place.