I want you to know that when I pick flowers
from my garden I wish their petals were your face
or a bell or some medicine. I want some way
to multiply bloom without the rare shit
of a mouthless animal. I want you to know
that I have no garden but the one we make
with our bodies. I want you to know how
to name a flower: sexy, fourth knuckle,
taste bud. Know that I never visited
my grandfather when he was dying
because I dreamed of not dying
and didn’t want to trim the bushes
or bury the cat. Know that my grandfather
is fine now, that his body is something
we know how not to sell or spend,
that we were ready for anything,
and that the cat wasn’t dead
because he had three legs and one eye.
Know that he’s just sleeping, doesn’t eat
or sing anymore. Know that my body
is an instrument you play by opening
the mouth and holding it till the night falls in.
Know that my other grandfather is deaf
and doesn’t love me. That there was a day
he taught me to hunt rabbits with yo-yos.
Know that we didn’t eat or kill them,
but found a snake that was already dead
and slit down the middle. And know
that the snake was full of bone,
that the underbelly was white and blank
like a map I could fold and unfold
until I felt transfigured. No, it did not
contain a moon or a rose or a tube
of chap-stick. No, my mouth tastes nothing
like that. And yes, I am soiled in light and thorn,
rendered an artifact which my grandchildren
would look at to learn how to kiss.