Yours

Yours

Her lips are like moths
fluttering around the light blub
that hangs over the dusty stair case
that leads to the basement that no one really goes into.
Unless,they're trying to find something
they had forgotten about for the past three years
or need a quiet place to cry.
But her teeth are like chainsaws,
you have to watch the kickback
but, they chatter motions of the moon
and big the Grand Canyon is.
They chatter stories of when
clouds took shapes of fossils,
and how seahorses carry their babies.
They chatter songs of open veins,
and the f-word during prayer.
But, she swears her heart beats faster than a hummingbird's,
at even the sheer mention
of how a blue whale is as long as three school buses.
And how every time she thinks of school buses
she remembers the time you sat next to her,
and told her you couldn't breathe
when you thought about breathing.
She doesn't look anything like photographs of herself, though
Because not even the greatest of cameras could capture
the crowbar jammed under her beating heart
nor the terror built behind her eyes
from twenty some years of
the train ride home
The funny thing about home, though is,
it's never too far away
but, damn, it takes forever to get there.
But not even the weight of that
could keep her from climbing to the top of mountains,
gliding brushes across canvas,
or crawling inside of God.
Because she explodes when she hears His name,
even though sometimes she can't hear it
or it sounds more like dust collecting on picture frames
or a the last breath from the lungs
hanging by a noose in her closet,
she knows it's there.
And if there's anything left to know
it's this: while her words aren't rational
and her actions and reactions don't apply to any rule-
she's got a pair of working man hands.
And they were created for one thing and one thing only.
To be held.