Vines

there are fat wet vines creeping into my

house through the pipes and through

the walls gentle as blue flames they curl into

my living there is ice in my attic sugar on my

tile I am present and useless like a nose torn

from a face and set in a bowl when

I saw God I used the wrong pronouns

God bricked up my mouthhole

his fists were white as gold there were

roaches in my beard now I live like a widow

every day a heave of knitting patterns

and sex toys my family speaks of me

with such pride noonesh to roghane