september body 

i raised my hands up 
to dip my fingers in
the ink well of the moon &
pressed sunflower seeds
into my arm pits--
i grew late like the
purple chrysanthemums
behind my knees--
this is where i run away 
to-- 
where my dry-leaf bones 
crinkle-cracked
& we woke up the ghosts 
of our mother's maple trees--
dangled rope swings from 
tongue--
i opened the seed packets
onto my thighs--
my calves-- this garden 
this body that grew 
in september--
i am the kind of vines that
come through the window
& the hair on my legs
is a corn field to
get lost in with the foxes--
a thicket by the creek.
i harbor snakes &
pocket-watch legged crickets
in with garden--
we keep time-- count
each second on
the throats of the toads--
they pretend to be brown leaves--
oh take a walk in my september
body with me--
we can sit on a bench 
in the park & pretend
to know how to talk to 
god & move our lips
to the words we meant 
to keep safe in our heads-- 
we're 
too tired to think without
lips-- lick the moon
off your fingers & 
i'll show you the rows
of seeds waiting to 
become a garden beneath
my skin--
i'll have pumpkins &
tomatoes & carrots to 
pull out by their leafy tops--
my body was made for planting
& holding roots &
growing tall as our mother's 
maple tree with her
head splashing white
in the moon--
these plants bloom at dusk--
this body asks for 
cold nights to remember
the shape of its bones--
right now this body wants
to lay across the rives
to stop them from flowing--
this body wants to quiet the
crickets & teach the
trees to hold onto their
leaves for another night--
this body wants to be still--
swallow the wind from
all directions as one
big breath &
when i let go this body wants
pumpkin vines to 
take over my legs--
grapes to weave themselves 
up to my shoulders--
i'll keep the smallest parts of
myself behind my knees &
underneath my arms where
the sunflowers bloomed--
between my legs i made a pinch-pot
out of the that clay
that leaves your fingers 
all dry & chalky &
i don't want to worry 
about becoming
a pot ready for
the kiln fire in the morning--
i want to watch the rivers
stand still-- holding
each other like paper dolls--
holding in all the air
until the wings of the 
song birds in the morning 
start it all up again--
when i grow
take whatever pieces of me 
you need--
make pumpkin pie 
& stew
& zucchini bread--
come
find me again where
i'm still laying-- 
fingers
dipped in the moon 
& tell
me there are only
so many hours you can keep
the rivers from 
spilling even if your
body is always as rare
as september--