Collections

There is a dirty mandible
floating in the glue of my gray matter.
These are the fossils
of my family members
who end themselves
each minute
and float past me
where I select their bones,
their teeth, their
vestigials.

Too much comes off daily
for one farmer
to push alone
in a slow wheel-
-barrow,
out into the
dark field.

So, they’re dumped,
strange,
into the bland jelly of my
fluorescent heart, which
is soulful and
is near me. It grows
nothing.

Short of true regeneration,
cataloguing is my industry,

collaging, steaming,
horticulture, mega-
-ton
smiling

Oh god. Laughter.

Laughter + bones.