zip tie

i do not think i was made for emails.
instead, i think i was meant to dig roots
from the spring earth & talk to birds
with a fire tooth. lately i have been zip-tying
my life together. the lawn mower & 
the bumper & the chipped plastic underneath
the car's ugly mouth. we drive until the country 
is a fruit roll up. the thorns are all that's left
this time of year. i watch as the yard, once
a meadow, becomes a skeleton dance.
the fixes do not last. the zip ties break.
get pulled open by my teeth. crushed gods
in the gravel. yesterday i named the car kill 
each after my grandparents. they rose 
& followed me back to the house where
we had a little seance dinner. i keep asking
the deer if there are better fixes. they say,
"try sinew" & i fail to. i do not have time
to catch a heart & break it. i do not have time
for singing in the way a hunt requires. instead,
i have a gun shop i drive past. i have
an overlord i can tithe to in order to purchase
my fragments of his eternity. i have 
a mailbox that fills with teeth if i am
not careful. the deer tell me, "the body holds
all the you need if you take it apart."