Maybe my veins are made of wire.

When you find me in bed at three
in the morning and three
in the afternoon, you will ask me
what's wrong and I will tell you,

Hold everything this is:
a newborn elephant, a thunderstorm
in my temples. Take a look--
there is place for a wind-up key in my back.
My doctor says there are misplaced ribs,
but I know better.
It's pressed in the shape of every time
they threatened to die while I loved them.

Twist it once--
the newborn elephant comes to life,
squalling, trumpeting, calling a military march of wrinkled forefathers
named Worry and Fretting and Scared
to pound their feet into my stomach.

Twist it twice--
it turns the dust of mistrust into hardpack,
desert floors unwilling to move.
A bucket of kindness will not make flowers grow here,
but do not assume
that the thirsty ground is not thankful.

Twist it again--
again--
again--
until the muscles in my shoulder make my left hand shake
like my fingers did every time I wanted to touch
a lover lost,
a thousand miles from my bedroom.
Do not hand me your trust. I have been wound
too tightly. I will drop you like a wine glass
in the hand of a passed-out drunk.

Instead, ask me for my heart.
I will hand you a silver key on a chain and tell you,
Hold everything that this is.