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 they say his bread is in oil I thank them for that and for their chromosomes most of which have been lovely I am lovely too my body is hard and choked with juice like a plastic throat stuffed with real grapes my turn-ons include Ovid and fake leather my turn- offs have all been ushered into the base- ment I’ll drink to them and to any victory the vines are all growing toward the foot of my bed I am waiting for them to come under the covers I am the only person still in this house there is no one here to look away