theseus* lent me a spool of rough red wool thread
that i forgot to tie to my doorknob
and instead knit into mittens.
when we were younger
uncle gideon said that if we waved at planes
skating across the sky’s frozen ceiling
their bellies would creak open
and drop candy canes down to us.
uncle gideon knocked a shivering wren
out of the sky with a stone
that cracked the top of the pond
and your head, craned toward the planes,
splintered from the trunk of your neck
and slipped earthward to grow in the valley
between your china shoulder blades,
to ever stare up.
god let a string of light bulbs down
from his trapdoor and asked
if we wanted to come up for tea,
but you said his tea choked you—
bitter without honey
and i couldn’t leave you behind.
the dim bulbs burned out,
tapping against the blank bright white sky.
i wander naked except for
my red wool mittens
and the frigid, flickering light
of a clicking projector
showing reruns of silent films
on my back.
