Still Life

Once I pretended my body was a farm auction. My chest
the hay baler taking the pastor’s arm just for the climax.
This is a field where I swore I’d down any robin for making
notoriously good mothers. A garage where I learned
baseball from my father carving bats out of wings.
Not like other boys, I end a sky by humming murder
or mean my most diligent flock of wings. Do I worry
if hummingbirds sleep? I do. I don’t know.
It’s possible my heart can best be described as local.
Handcrafted. Invites over 17 different species to roost.
I try one method in coping: to heat coins over rails.
To scar thunder across my skin. Some days,
when my throat is the bottle of milk souring on the porch,
I contain the single note the radio is afraid to sing.