I’m collecting things

for a perfect life,

in a sparse garden

with a quiet lemon tree.
There’s an assortment of wine

corks tucked in the corner,

waiting for the elephants–

a graveyard of grapes.
During the night I grow

a polished claw-foot bath,

to scare the crows away

from the cherry twins.
With a pair of nail scissors

I trim the short grass

and carefully feed it

homemade lemonade.
Nectarine juice drips

in tracks down my arm,

the flesh fills gaps

between my crooked teeth.
Eventually I feel clean.

The sky no longer scares me,

but I still lie flat on my ribs,

bleeding blossoms.