and she’s always been a transplant

the radiator is hissing
lullabies from the snake room
the house is shutting itself down
for the night
and i am under a down grey blanket
on the couch dreaming
of the little clay girl
who lives on the underside
of my diaphragm.

i imagine her sitting
on the sidewalk of my liver
dropping pebbles into balloons
just to see how many will fit
before the tear and the burst
send slow cannon balls
gliding down past her
reflecting pool pupils.

she likes to feel the weight of breaking.
she loves to feel pretty things grow full.

i ask, from her perspective,
how many pebbles does she think
the arteries of my balloon heart
can swallow before there is
no longer room in my chest
for it to expand,
before the tears start
to threaten bursting.

will it look like a piñata?
will she be too tempted to
strike and watch me explode?
i am stuck here, willingly.
my heart is too full to leave.
oakland, it was too easy to flirt with you
and mean it.

i still welcome you with timid fists.
i am still a misrepresentation of myself.

i know well
the complex heat of lying.

i know well
the complex weight of home.