Your Hands Are Tiger Teeth

Hear a slow stair of doorbell
in an ugly place I like. And
when a lightning jumps it's
x-ray frogs again.
It makes me think my head, which
talks with your voice. I can
Say right now, I don't want your
Christmas cards with the children
that aren't mine. Have your hands
say "yes" or "no", but
quick and straight.

I've never liked church pageants
but I like the word pageant for its
ocean mystery. I went with my parents
to see her sing, sat on green velvet
under plastic pine. Then her mother
sucked the last pill, I heard, so
I flung back to the fake velvet,
the green plastic.
Left my shock on the couch.

A high pitch only means daisies
to me, a low something of cane sugar.
You couldn't hurt it if you tried, girl
it ain't a thing. Because even the bad
vibes I toss beyond the windowglass
draft up, blow right back,
balled-up paper bits in a six-story
upward hurtle, and
it's eerie:
the jarring dust just murmurs there,
crooned around underlit brick,
unsung bigtop, alleycat bedroom.