Hammering the roof of our barn, our grandfather smoked
the sun in buttery rolls: “I know a gypsy who made soup
from a single nail.”
2.
The red barn became a white house that became a lane
of shrinking boxes. Nails hum in the boxes. Our mom pours
the nails into bowls too hot to swallow
though you’re getting better. Your smile is a dead filly:
“It just takes practice.”
3.
You crack our bedroom wall hanging
a picture of an actor on a bent nail. The picture laughs
over your record player. The other kids use CDs
but you like feeling old
and used like the skinny book about New York
whose pages are bird wings in your back pocket.
4.
Your fingernails grow into hooks. I try not to breathe
on your scratches as they open into streams. Maybe
you’re fishing. Maybe my eyes aren’t burning
like the barn inside you, a horse galloping
over our carpet as hooves rain
like nails from the ceiling.
5.
Your record spins
in ever-tightening circles, a gypsy singing:
I’d rather be a hammer than a nail
6.
Every morning our mom sweeps
the nails from our carpet. She opens a box
and puts the nails inside. Then she opens another box
and waits.
At the bottom of the box
is a single nail.
7.
She’s waiting for you
to step inside. She wants to make nail soup—
you soup—
me soup--
our house simmers on a low boil :
“Only a gypsy can make soup
from a nail.”
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