I joined girl scouts to
ring door bells and take
thin mints to the mausoleum.  

We all knew I would make 
a bad girl scout.
Instead of
badges I liked to collect 
rips in my jeans where my thighs
were too big from Boston cream
donuts and box
birthday cake breakfasts
with my father-- 
I was an icing witch you know?--
a peanut butter spoon child
capable of devouring the troop
reserves of thin mints or caramel deLights--
that was back when I wore my skin
less like a sleeping bag and 
more like a camp fire-- 
I licked flames off black marshmallows
-- finger painted with shadows--
wrote stories in crayon on the 
rectory walls--
The other girls didn't really
know what I was--
Watched me out the window
as I perched on the tombstones 
even in November-- 
Resonate chiming of church bell
or door bell or acolyte bell--
They believed I could be
a scout or a spirit-- 
Some thought I was the calculated
infiltration of a boy in a plaid skirt--
I never remembered to
wear my vest to meetings-- chewed
holes in the collar of all my t-shirts
so I resembled a crumpled
piece of notebook paper--
Some earned ghost story badges 
devising stories about me--
Said I had crawled out from the basement
between boxes of gnarled crayon thumbs 
and it was the troop leaders who
suspected I was born in a mausoleum.
That's where I sold my
cookies to-- what's the use of
selling cookies if you only 
go to people you know?--
I converted to a girl scout to ring door
bells and gobble stacks of thin mints 
between tomb stones.
At midnight my alarm would go off
by my bed and I would shove a plastic
backpack full of peanut butter patties,
Thanks-A-Lots, lemonades, thin mints,
and even shortbreads-- clamor through
the back alleys of Kutztown till
I made it to the graveyard--
face paled by the pale and the veins
of the tree at the top of the hill--
knocked four times
at the gate and sang 
Make new friends but keep the old
one is silver and the other's gold 
--latch would flick open and the 
soil would shift eagerly as the 
spirits crawled forward-- church bell
hum-- door bell shout--
knock gentle on the faces of stone--
they sang back
a circle is round a circle is round
as I placed cookies on their foreheads--
they hailed me the peanut butter witch and 
plaid-skirt boy and midnight scout--
We ate cookies together
all in the mausoleum-- told
ghost stories about real girls 
and craft time-- and sewing on badges--
they laughed and asked why I was 
a girl scout and I told them about
the door bells-- 
In the morning I was lonely again between 
empty boxes and sleeping corpses--
the troop always blamed me for
eating all the cookies myself-- 
I tried to explain that ghosts don't have 
money so we have to be charitable
sometimes-- I sang
the other is gold the other is gold
And they left me to sweep up the crumbs--
told me to sell to my parents next
year or not a be a fatty
left me to the mausoleum where 
I could smile to myself
alone to count rips in my jeans--
night came heavy again in another
milk-glass moon  and the bodies
sat up and asked why I was crying--
wiped away my tears with burial clothes
and fed me their last tube
of cookies one by one singing
the other is gold the other is gold
Our peanut butter witch-- our midnight scout
what would we be without you?