the sphinx 

i always wanted to write
a riddle-- what walks on
eight legs & has never talked
to the sun. are you stumped?
so am i. i make riddles
without answers, knitting
them out of stray threads
pulled from the sleeves 
of sweaters. it's hot our
now & everyone should
have packed their sweaters 
in a box deep in their closet 
where they can cross their 
arms & remember winter 
for the rest of us. the sphinx
sometimes has the head
of a woman & sometimes has 
the head of a man. i consider
how i might be a sphinx--
part boy part girl part 
haunches. a stone stalking
the parameter of being. 
i'm pouring sand from a cereal box
& eating it with a spoon.
what refuses to sleep 
for twenty-two years & 
is still tired? 
i should be guarding something.
i scour through all my things
but i think discarded
anything of value. there was
that one pendant with a gold rim
& that one ring i would pretend 
had a ruby in the middle
but the ruby was a hunk 
of glass & the ring turned 
everyone i loved green.
i'm a new kind of sphinx 
& i'm asking 
what has fourteen eyes 
but cries with only one of them?
what has a vacuum but 
tongues the dirt off the floor 
themselves?
i put in my head phones &
listen to the erosion
try to drown out the complaints
of the sweaters who are
saying that they want a handful
of ice cubes to make 
it through the night. if you're
too merciful no one will ever 
toughen up & turn to stone
& splice themselves with 
a stronger animal. actually
my lion legs are the parts of
me that always want to run first--
an instinct to escape. 
i take off the man's head.
i put on the women's head.
i take off the women's head.
i put on the man's head. 
who lies about their favorite color
to gain favors with the gods?
the sun never talks back
so what would the point be anyway.
i pull the blinds shut
& pretend it's winter
by opening all the doors of the fridge.
do you remember learning something
in elementary school about
how the arctic is a desert too.
right where i belong & the sweaters
will be happy too. i used to have
this tile from Venice that seemed
like it might be worth guarding
but i don't know where it is--
maybe it shattered while
i was writing riddles. it sit
in the new desert & think about 
the second 's' & how i would rather
be posed on a dessert--
a cake topper even
up to my paws in icing. i could
lick them clean when it was all
said & done. 
what animal feels lonely 
& takes off its head? 
who wishes for the bitterness 
of november to spill
into each room of their body?
i'm guarding a fragment 
of colorful glass.
let me give you a riddle.