A Fairly Godparent (For Jack Spicer)

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By Jo Wallace

The glass in the tower is a name for winter, this
rises like a cell. One melon
in a Peoria grocery store.
A tape measure or fissure to push you up
walls. No one’s been paying the rent in heaven, and God,
even now, my hands painted green. Hello! It’s the furniture
speaking, how may we direct this call?
I need grommets! No more pigs
rolling on the wood, tools with no blood on them.
Call the white dog! I haven’t seen this night
stand before an open sun, and the radio
missing. Tell everyone
to try and have good insides. Have more outsides
among insides. The candle is clean, the bed is washed
once a week, some of our last good days are
buoys long with confession. These are not you,
collapsing into the bushes with a pyramid
on your belly, expanding your face
until it’s a balloon with no edges. I’m home
for Christmas. For any damn brick full with feathers.
You want the love around the corners of a dying
mattress, and build a spite fence. After June
a circus tent whispers the right number of branches.