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when i was smaller than my ambition,
i sat in the communal wheelchair at church
and commanded my brother push me
wherever i wanted to go.
last week,
i raised the wheelchair above my head
and launched it into this great big row of candles
and blacksmithed the metal into a sword
which i stuck under this great big row of organ keys
and peeled them off.
i planted thyme seeds in a red pot
the color of morning time and his fucking mouth
and they refuse to grow.
i will be warm until the pot eats the dirt.
if you firmly press a hand (any hand)
against my back (any back),
the pot will turn orange (any orange)
and taste like a burst of the most unexpected lavender
and a boy (any boy)
will become orange with you.
in a mouth (any mouth),
i do not ask.
when the candles curdled my metal,
my mouth became all the mouths
and his ear (any ear)
became a fire (every fire).