In the house again, beside the box, the father felt him, in his body, open up his ageless mouth—a mouth of skin and text and warm rain—and though still now in the room there with the box still words would not come out, and there from his father body came another shape instead, a glowing, flowing fountain through his center—a small ream of creamy water which, against his teeth and tongue, became another box,
a blackened nodule
in his mouth hole,
small as a bird’s
egg, or a bulb: o
And in the room there the father could see absolutely nothing but the sides and faces of the ejection, the new shape, each side there in the house there pouring brightly, and there against his skin the box began to spin,
giving off
an awfulllllllllllllllllll
stuttereddddd
sounddddddd
With each instance of the sound, the box blew even more light, glowed as if its heat would bend it in
and from the seam of what the box was it made another, spitting more boxes from its shrieking o o o o o
another box there: o
and another: o
boxes falling out of boxes, boxes of boxes, boxes, glow on glow on glow—the mother somewhere underneath it—as in spiral, as in stun—boxes spitting up more boxes to make more boxes, blackened gifts
and as each box hit the air inside the house the house would shake and ripple, there and there, and there—
shook like singing through blown speakers
rippled like clear light peeled off of some uncertain sky
as each box fell, sent in its order, to shriek and shake upon the ground, the room quickly became filled in with the boxes—the more there were the quicker made—each box giving its own and from therein more and more, each of a light and sent in writhing, still unopened, mega-rubbed—
until box by box
by box by box
the room was so bright
and the father, any of him, at the windows
could not breathe
or sink or say or
see