Inside the Room of the Closet there is a Boy Named Luke

Take some time to bury yourself in the
chapstick you lather yourself in. Monotony
is not something to look forward
to. Neither is the year of paisley pants.
Yards of nylon and snake skin pouring
from the clock’s ticking arrows. A vastness.
Splendid as if we had tasted lemons purple
with geometry. Stop yourself from thinking.
Listen to what these words do not say.
Mellow, sad tune hollowed out by
the indentation of bunt cakes and breathing. The feast
of the white man. Suburban yuppie. This
is not who you are. You are brown
and travel with elephants too wide
for pavement. Stuff the gray the wrinkles
all those eyes inside a closet in the dust
of a darkened kitchen. The gray will step inside
to see a six-walled room the size of seven year-
olds. There is an urn of fish and paisley oranges
in the corner by the sixth wall that reads
Luke, I am not your mother.
Wrinkles will taste the fish inside ash, burnt
and writhing in the ecstasy of moisture. Eyes were not meant to bear the weight of six
hundred suburban towns. There are six-
teen eyes. A pair for each crevice. Inside
the room of the closet there is a hollow cake
and a boy named Luke. He does not know
the comfort of falling asleep in the warmth
of an elephant’s mouth. A snake escapes beneath
his teeth.