Was it Supposed to Feel Good

the instant the attic was built the moment my mother handed my father the knife, told him to sharpen it somewhere dark. How come the emptiest of rooms are the lakes we remember the most? & the art of drowning bedside with a picture frame of a loved one becomes a tragedy if the radio is not right? Was it supposed to feel good? The house pulling apart its ribs & an ocean pouring through? There are light bulbs in the backyard dug like garlic. Which is to say, I'm too anxious to mow the lawn tonight. I have heard of tongues bent out of old movie tickets bent out of stars that ask How are you? Would you like more coffee? Did you know if you count a cricket's chirps in 15 seconds then add 37 it will give you the temperature of the air you are crying? Left unlocked, a house invites the strangest of party guests. A sock drawer bullet & a boy hemorrhaging wings. Outside, trees sway like hairdressers smoking. It could be easier. The bar joke ending with a dead president walking in & my father a Russian spy. My mother's a French Resistance fighter & her body the forest unflinching. We've all lived in rooms we knew couldn't take: our flood, our limbs thick as honey. In the attic, my father holds down his heart as my mother heats a frying pan. Somewhere, I imagine love as a tongue a body didn't know it could break.