tour guide

i meet a tour guide in the middle 
of the night. she has eyes made of blackberries.
i pick them & the moon shrinks 
to the size of a dime. the dime does not have
a colonizer on it. instead, there are
abundant crows. the crows say, "never spend us."
my partner has been playing on the stock market. 
i don't believe there is a way out. he says,
"this is our savings." i have not been able
to save money for years. instead, i scramble
on all fours away from catastrophes. 
sometimes i understand why there are billboards.
other times i think, "the world could be anything,
why do we have this?" the tour guide 
is gentle. her eyes grow back. i do not tell
anyone else about her. it is not romantic.
it is divine. i want a god so bad. i want a savings
so bad. not the money but the ability to 
stand up & become another country. to kiss
the feet of mountains. there's a thin white lady
who makes fairly good yoga videos 
so i watch them. she travels the world. 
in one video she is on a mountain in peru
which i will probably never make it to. the tour guide
says, "the world holds you." i am trying
to believe that. there is a bird 
who visit me out my windows while i type 
hungers into little digital boxes. i imagine them
like shoe boxes in a huge mismanaged closet. 
the bird has a heart the size of one blackberry bead.
i bead her earrings. she does not come back.
i hope she tells stories about me. the tour guide 
tells me i could easily be a tour guide if 
i really wanted to. i don't know if i believe her.
when i open my mouth, needles spill out.
i sew myself into bad dreams. my partner invests
in bmw. invests in a medical company trying
to craft electronic lungs. the dime crows leave
to forage elsewhere. sometimes, on a moonless night,
i will hold the coin up just to hear the wind
blow through it. 

firehouse simulation

i prepped for fire. i craved something
to survive. in fourth grade, the fire company
brought a fake house to fill with smoke.
we went two at a time, crawling on
our stomachs to wriggle out of the door.
the smoke smelled almost sweet. i was paired
with a boy i was afraid of. i got out & left him.
the fireman scolded me for leaving
him behind. at home i began to see fire everywhere.
i begged my mom to buy a ladder so that
i could crawl out my window. we bought
stickers that said, "two adults, two children inside."
i filled a bowl with water & carried it to my room.
a precaution in case fire found me. something
to put it out. the simulation house started
following me. would see it in the drive way.
i would wake up inside. the walls, smaller than
any house i'd ever been inside of. the world was
just starting to become more terrifying.
i became aware of my hands & my bones. my stomach
& the dirt under my fingernails. there were boys
who took to making a game of me. face flushed.
face on fire. i would wet my hair in the morning
to keep the flames from spreading. at church i saw
fire above all the apostles' heads. how did
they keep it contained? my uncle told me
an old story about how if you hear dogs barking
in the middle of the night that there will be
a fire. i would stay up, worried i might miss the harbinger.
i think i was always meant to be a herald. 
maybe that is thinking too much of myself. i try
my best to prepare. smoke under my skin. 
the fire in my core, burning like a swallowed house. 
up the street, the fire trucks opened their mouths
as wide as they could. i sometimes feared
they were coming for me. 

raffle ticket

i trade a tooth for a raffle ticket.
it is the year that the birds stop birding
& return to the ground to hide.
i get a shovel & dig, hoping to reunite
with the fairy people beneath the soil.
god they must have it so good down there
with so many centuries of quiet. 
i go to a party where the only food
is raffle tickets. someone whispers to me,
"i had a cousin who won." i do not know
anymore if i want to win. at night
on the red television, they call out a number
& someone weeps. someone hugs their loved ones.
i do not know what happens. no one knows
what happens. we are assured that it is not death
or even a rebirth. that it is some mythical
third dawn that is ready
to make us dazzling & white. sometimes i do not
even watch. somedays i do not even
have a raffle ticket. instead, if i am alone
i look at my palms & remember how
in elementary school my friend read my palm
not like a raffle ticket number but like
a book. he said i would have two great loves
& maybe a child. i did not. it was still 
comforting to have someone else
hold my hand. our warmth. the basketball hoops. 
i wish we still used raffle tickets for church fundraisers
& bingo halls. i want a cellophane veil.
i want a movie night in a box. instead, i have
the windows full like stained glass. the pictures
that come & freeze frame are always terrors.
mysteries grow. become religions. i took out
the tooth with my bare hands. a hunger
for a chance. my first boyfriend
buying lottery tickets & scratching them off
in the gas station parking lot. even that was
more dignified. i want a punch bowl to sleep in.
i want the earth to open & for the fairy to say,
"yes, come & sleep here." the party ends
& i do not go home. the host asks if i need
a place to go & i say i do not. i sit outside.
the streetlamps stare. the moon has an advertisement
projected across his face. it says,
"there is always a chance."  

conflict avoidance 101

if there is a hole in the sun,
close one eye. once when i was
a girl i found my uncle like a goldfish
belly-up on the stairs. i bathed him
because no one else was awake. he drinks
like a goldfish, aimless & light bulb-eyed. 
he does not remember. neither do i.
in my family we don't talk
about things like this. they become 
trapeze wires in the house. sometimes
i use them to dry my clothes. 
sometimes i write a poem & that is as close
as i get to telling anyone the truth.
my father chased me once with 
a rattlesnake or was it a knife or was it
just a toy? memories crunch under my feet
like dead leaves. i was taught that
to love is to forget what they did. 
in some ways this has been easier. if you
leave a memory alone long enough 
you will start to question if it was real.
until one day over coffee you & your brother
will remember a night when 
all the windows folded in & the house
was so dark. we found each other. 
turned on a night light. saw the ceiling
crawling & shut the light off. better to
pretend there was nothing wrong
& to stare. in the morning the windows
returned or did we cut them open?

for jolene 

when you think "taste"
what comes into your mind?
is it the dandelions i fed you
on the hill above the well?
the salt block in the yard? a mother 
memory of sweet ribbons 
in the dark? maybe our fingers close
to your nose? i will always think 
of us in the summer before
the metal folding chairs were crushed
& rusted. when we could still hold you
as we sat in them. when we marveled
at your softness & curiosity.
do you remember how the yard 
once had grass? how that first winter 
i brought you all blankets, scared
that the wind was too harsh?
if you had one more secret to give me
what would it be? i want to know
how the stars look when 
we turned the back porch light off. 
maybe if you could tell me that.
i want to jar your bleat & put it
in the cupboard next to the water-glassed eggs
& the walnuts. i cannot believe how high
you could leap. in the first days that you were here
i worried i would wake up
to find you on the roof. i did not but 
once i did find you on top
of the garbage can. i picked you up,
ending your game. i regret only 
not fighting off the boys more 
to make sure you got your piece 
of banana peel. i regret only 
not holding you longer when you
were smaller. i regret only
that the land asks for our beloveds back
& that why is always the wrong question. 
keep me where you go. 

apple tree

i saw the ghost of the apple tree
wearing a purple dress on the side
of the road. she told me she was
getting married. aren't we all getting married?
i don't want to be a turtle anymore.
i would like to have long legs 
& a keyhole to peer through.
the apple tree used to spit her face
in the neighbors' yard. they never
picked all the fruit. instead, the animals came.
had feasts. i always wanted to join them
in my own purple dress. i don't own
the dress anymore. who knows 
where it ended up. i used to be softer. 
i wish i was softer. instead i am bound by
laws about who owns the land. property lines.
a wooden fence. animals have always been
the best anarchist teachers. climb the trees.
eat the berries. shit on the roof. care for
the weak. sleep in the guts of an old tree.
i ask the apple tree why she stopped 
bearing fruit. she tells me that it was
too lonely. to create is always lonely.
even the sharing, like little deaths
in the mouths of those you love.
i think it would be way too proud
for me to claim to be an apple tree like her.
maybe i am a knuckle tree or an eyelash tree.
something less sweet & vital. i admit 
to the apple tree that once one of 
her fruit rolled close enough
to the side of the road that i was able to
snatch it up. i ate it right away. juice on 
my hands. all apples are tethers. all poems
then too. the purple dress hanging on the mailbox.
naked, the tree runs off. i tell her i am always here
if she wants to be devoured again.  

life coach 

i call the blender museum. they have
advice for me. i need to cut my life up
into drinkable pieces. guava. mango. yogurt.
someone walks back & forth up the road
& i go to see what they're all about. they hand me
a little business card & say, "i am a life coach."
i run away as fast as i can. i stay away from coaches
especially the life variety. i have a hard enough time
trying to swallow it all by myself. they are
everywhere. i collect the business cards
like trading cards. love. health. wealth.
one life coach says she just found god again.
i think "again?" i am glad i am not someone
who worries about the afterlife. instead i am worried
about bananas & how there used to be 
a different breed of banana that isn't here anymore.
then i am freaking out about species loss. what flavors 
have bombs eaten? what fingers? 
once when we were still together we were in a movie theater
& a life coach tapped me on the shoulder.
it was getting to the good part. i asked, "what do you want?"
she said, "the first session is free." i was
so desperate to be heard that i almost 
took her up on it. instead, you were jealous 
& ended up eating the business card. i was relieved.
a real exorcism is when you unburden someone you love
from themselves. my own desire to not disapoint. 
is it because i am an eldest child? is it because 
when i was younger i could talk to bees? 
still, sometimes that movie theater life coach 
came to the window. i would find her breath-print 
in the morning. sometimes, because i am sick,
i considered leaving the window open at night
to see if she would just come inside & fix me.
i do not want to put in the work. the plane you left on
was full of life coaches. then, too, the grocery store
i shopped in alone. aisles of life coaches.
the life coach in the woods & the life coach 
knitting baby hats on the bench. some people fear failure.
i fear becoming a life coach. that one day i will
find myself handing out business cards to pigeons. 
i know you are not supposed to feed the ghosts 
but i do often. i pluck out a few strands of hair.
one of the ghosts explains, "i am a death coach."
the horrors persist. the winter persists.
i get an add on instagram for becoming a certified 
life coach. i weep. i burry the phone. you are back.
you have never left. you are a life coach & you smile
like oatmeal. i say, "i want to sleep until i am a bird."
you say, "why do you hold your dreams by
the scruff of their neck?" 

roostless 

when the chickens cannot find a roost
they find a skull. pile on each other 
in the shoulder blades of the yard. 
i do not have a roosting instinct 
or even an instinct to come home when
the sky starts turning dreamsicle. 
i have tried to be a wristwatch person 
& even a person with wings. the middle
of the night chews my fingers. i stand 
on the roof, peeling lobes off the moon.
it is ripe & i am not sharing. the chickens 
use me as a roost. soon we will all 
return to dinosaur. i believe in cycles
& thus the age of giganticness is on its way back.
i am hoping to be a herbivore but the chickens
suggest that being a carnivore is more fun.
more of a chase. i tell the chickens i will
care for them even when we are dinosaurs.
the rooster would make a very good terror.
he wants daggers for teeth & a fossil 
on the other side of a dusty man's dream. 
those solar system models never quite catch
just how wild the orbit is. the moons
are looking for a roost they will never have.
the dinosaurs too have stories & poetry 
ready to breathe again. i think if we do not sleep
we do not have to grieve. we can keep moving
& the earth can keep moving & we can
go aquatic again. the chickens do not like
that idea. it rains microplastic. at first
i mistake a bead for a droplet of water.
on my tongue it feels prehistoric. a footprint
twisted into a pin-prick. i wait for the sun.
for the chickens to scatter & do their yard plucking.
worms who thought they could sleep in. 
i stretch. feel like a trash bag of coat hangers.
weep for my big cavernous organs. for the lizard
i will soon be. for the time the orbit will take
to make us massive & somehow still roostless.  

let me be less clear

i don't wake up like i used to. 
instead i consider becoming a walnut.
hearty & winter-ready. my fist, eternal. 
i used to order teeth in the mail
& send them back after using them.
it was greedy but you always have 
to game the system while you can.
they catch up to you. they password protect
the stars. sunglasses on the dashboard. 
everything has been getting louder lately. 
i put peanuts into my ears. i do not think
there is much left that i need to hear. 
i shoplifted jello in college 
but not enough. i used to believe
that the cop cars were always coming for me
so i would give my face to a squirrel
& tell them, "run while you can." i am sick
of having something to say. i want to be
like the rocks who take centuries 
to form a single word. they tell stories
only one another & the bones can read.
there is a man in my neighborhood who runs
miles & miles each day. i consider talking to him.
running to catch up. out of brief. his sneakers.
the cold january morning. i would
make up a story about my life. 
running along & telling him that the beautiful farm
at the end of the road is mine. has been
in my family for centuries. nothing has
been in my family for centuries besides hunger.
an emptied tongue. a wooden spoon ground down
on one side from once catching fire.
everyone wants to learn a second language.
i want to speak crow bird. sit outside
& make jokes with them about the purple berries
that humans cannot eat but they can.
our stomachs are like knots in the soil's belt. 
i have seen the truth. it is shivering
in the corner of the sky. lie to me until 
we are both happy. i want to eat from bowl.
i want to get on my knees. watch the house shrink 
in the dryer. lint sweaters for the rats. 
the rooster screams. it is still the dead of night. 

genie in a bottle

you can ask for more wishes. you can
rub every bottle in the house until it laughs. 
you can travel in the desert 
for years just to reach a stone. 
humans are not the only creatures
who have the concept of a wish.
the birds too, dip their beaks into the sky.
skim off the cream. hear the giants 
in the thunder. their boiling bones.
the story of the genie in the bottle is believed
to have come from a story of a demon
in a stone. the stone was black. probably obsidian.
museum locked, my partner & i look
at knives cut from the same rock. 
our reflections are birds in their mirrors.
all the flesh on both sides of a tool.
in the gutted house, we look for an allen wrench.
none of our friends know what that is.
the year is over & i have not wished enough
or i have wished too much. i can never tell. 
the neighborhood cats are wishing
on the moving truck. they rub the sides
with their cheeks. snow comes like
wedding rice. the story of the stone is
a cautionary tale. of what i am no longer sure.
i like to think i am better than a parable
but who would not touch such a structure
in the thirsty nowhere? the desert is endless. 
will drown you in dust. we all barter. 
his stone is cool to the touch despite 
the hammering sun. despite the color. 
on the other side, the demon, asmodeus, 
tells me to let him free. you can even ask
for more wishes. the lanternflies on hamilton street 
coax a demon from the shiny buildings. wish for
home. i am a third-generation hoarder.
i keep the wishes. i keep the lamp.
even keep the stone.