rose water

believe me, the sink is bleeding
like a dandelion wound.
not milk but rose water. i am 
drinking flowers until 
all i can see is your big pink mailbox.
i wrote you letters when the world
was a pile of bones. i would go 
only at night to sift through 
the wreckage. the truth is that 
i love being alone. the way your own
silence can wrap you like deli meat.
wax paper. a petal of ham.
once my mother came in the window
at night. she said, "i believe you 
about the sink." i was not sure 
if i could trust her but we got to the glasses
& we drank long & wild. we drank
until our eyes were tunnels. 
we drank until my father was 
a hole in the sky. in my dream i tell her
everything about him. he buys 
enough wars to fill the yard. 
she tells me, "i used to sometimes escape
into a hydrogen balloon." i become
afraid of fire. no more hindenberg.
i have seen enough skies burn down.
the sunset is floral. we milk it into 
tall glasses. i used to run all the way
up the mountain to a rose bush 
planted decades ago by the ghosts.
there, a faucet & dishes. something
to do to pass the bleeding. my father
in the shower, waiting with nothing
but his eyes on. i try to work up 
the courage to bathe him. the rose water 
steam will maybe remind us of 
that one garden off the highway.
the one with the god statues & 
a wooden ark.