I was raised on the page of a magazine,
a pencil rammed down my spine that I might
keep better time.
My mother said, here, marry this potato,
this party hat,
In the night they came to me
on the night trapeze.
I collected hallucinations--Laika in a capsule made of experts.
That winter, my husbands built priests in the garage,
confessed to plates of spaghetti
and drove down mine shafts to golf club coffins.
Now, I begin with new bones,
eyes placed on coins like hor d'ouevres
for the Oracle who breathes deep
and tells my future
even knowing that no one will believe her.