quill pen

in the toy box place there were deer.
they pressed their noses to my egg
just before it ruptured. all the shoes 
in a rabbits nest by the door. 
i held my hands up to a juicy sun. tasted
apple ghost & worms. on the bedroom floor
all the birds came. i could not read yet
but i could poem. i begged for ink. 
crows knocked on my windows. i fed them
sunflower seeds & told them television
through my mouth. that was back when
the trees were still in the bodies. tall & swallowing
light in the front yard. i drew them with
the ink from a hole in the wall. my grandfather
died in what would become my bedroom.
he never left, remained curled up like
a shrimp in the closet. gave me notes
about my drawings. "that is a planet."
"that is a daughter." i was not a daughter.
always felt more like a feather on the back
of some wild dream. i found so many places
to gather ink. from the peephole in a zoo room.
from a hole in the yard where the goldfish 
played tag. from a neighbor boy who 
always smelled like cigarettes & wood. 
to store them properly, i always rolled up
my creations like scrolls. wished i had a carrier pigeon
to deliver them to the cows up the street.
i figured they might appreciate the work 
of a ceiling girl. instead, i kept my words.
let them grow extra legs. let them bloom with
their own desires. i loved the splotch a broken
pen tip made. burst of light. thumb
to the berry. then, supernova.