When I Tell Our Story of Bees and Vinegar

I want to say—
             I don't know how 
to be charming on an elevator 
             or in any other place
where people avoid my eyes
             or watch my hands 
like they're foreign soil—
             that walking outside is an erupt-
ion of static 
             everyone is talking or gasping
like fresh pulled silver fish 
             from a lake I've never seen—
that I constantly worry about 
             the destiny of my organs
they work in tandem
             even the wild parts but 
they can stop at any moment
             by choice or force—
that dear great grandfather 
             I have your crooked teeth
a birthmark shaped like 
             a helicopter blade
your memories of how easy 
             it is to lose land and refuge —
I want to say that we talk a lot
              but not about dreams
how they swell in buckets like
             language of flowers and all
the things we're too scared to say