What I want to tell her about cereal 
and how we all want to die from a windowsill.

I want to tell her that living on 
windowsills is something she'll never
have to do again-- to say that the shingles
she sits on are only flakes of cinnamon
toast crunch-- to say that we were only 
dreaming when we woke up on the roof of
my house in Kutztown where times
moves in the breath of wind across corn
and street lamps waking up one by one.
It was night time and we both wanted
to die. Me and her and the leaves
in the gutters.
We wanted to fall with the potted willow tree.
Cry our pollen and break our cinnamon
limbs in half--
The cereal star sky was nothing more
than a sugar bowl over turned on
our heads-- shake the crystals 
from your hair and pretend snow
tastes like Splenda-- our split cereal skulls
that wouldn't let us sleep-- 
we were worried about falling
in love with windowsills at 3a.m.--
Again again-- I say again girl-body--
and cereal bones-- you measuring cup muse--
We were worried about dying on our
own terms-- worried about what 
cereal they would eat before our funerals-- 
Worried about the potted willow tree that fell
out the window before her--
I want to tell her that skin
burns like the water it's made of.
I want to tell her that she's thick
and smells wet root tops and spilled
potting soil. I want to tell her that
she won't have to cast out a fishing line
from anymore bedrooms-- plopped into the
sweet milk street lamps to lure
away a passing car
-- fishing for white eels--
delving into the corn-wave--
soybean field sea
for a phone call--
I want to tell her that people
would eat waffles with strawberries
before our funeral 
and talk about the willow tree 
in the driveway and wonder if he
loved us and if HE loved us and
if boys put girls on windowsills
to pose them like white eels or
if girl bodies put girl bodies on windowsills 
and if everyone has felt like
they wanted to die when they severed
themselves open on their backs--
dissection table for the moon light--
cereal spoons dipped into another
bowl of potted willow tree.
I want to tell her that we laid there together--
that loneliness is something you can
share with yourself and page of poetry.
I want to tell her every freckle
on her face was only cinnamon.
I want to tell her she might sit on more
windowsills but that she never has to land
in the driveway like the willow tree.
I want to tell her that wanting to die
is something cereal can always fix
and that we can lay open to the sky
and wake up next to each in the morning--
nail the fallen shingles back on the roof.
Pick up the pieces of the willow tree pot
from the driveway.