yearbook

the face is a television traveler.
candid kind of mirror in
the school yard where they cut down
the tree & turned her into hair.
a goldfish hovers above my bed.
i follow her all the way to the creek.
we are thumbs in the making.
there is a computer lab with
text boxes to sleep in. my school picture
blooms like ink bloated by water.
a backpack in the sink. out the window
are girls trying to get rid of their genders.
broad daylight. legless as ever. 
when i get there i am swimming.
jujubees & lime soda. bruises 
on my knees from asking the ground
to give us onions. my hair, like
onion tassels. i try to teacher myself
but the dark of a classroom eats
the sentence. i forget a jacket. 
do a bad stuff get pinned to the brick wall.
everything in a bin of bouncy balls.
we still have the museum. full color. 
i used to think if i had enough signatures
that that meant i was real. no one knew
what to write to me. i faked signatures
sometimes for friends i wished i had.
a fever nurse place. teeth like cars 
in a line. the snow, finally coming
like flyleaf. the ghost of the old tree
laughing with the gym jungle. 
i lick my finger & wipe a smudge 
from the corner of my soft mouth
in his zoo box picture.