homemade 

i let my old face thaw on the counter.
i need it to make shepherd's pie
from scratch. 
we have been canning tongue
all morning & there is condensation
on the windows. i write my name in sweat.
when i want to speak i think of 
the cookie sheet with the burnt on 
languages. baking sugar until it sings.
i buy a house from costco & it comes 
all wrapped in plastic with 
an allen wrench. we make a car from
hunger for the mall town. a search light comes
& we burry the knives. everyone has
a fear of the future, mine is remedied
by learning how to talk to birds
& feeding them pound cake. when i lived
on the shiny people street i didn't have
anyone to feed. i had to feed the birds.
the woman with the horrible son who lived
above me would feed them too. 
we never crossed paths. her soft flat bread
left grease on the stoop. my thumbprint cookies
spotted the concrete red. the birds got
beautiful & fat. gathered in the winter window
to watch me mix the dough on the tiny counter.
none of the knives belonged to me.
my room had a hole in the floor. sometimes 
i slipped inside. read old recipe cards 
but never made the dishes. i want to know
what my grandmother argued with 
her mother about. i want to know if 
& how those frustrations showed up
in what she made. our hands afterall
are spaceships. take me to jupiter where
everyone is gay.