corset maker's nest

i tied a knot around the moon until
she severed in two. i tried all i could
to put her back together. tape & glue
& even a photograph of my father 
as a child. i try to keep track of all
the smallness. make my case to the fawns
to not get older. to not put the cd wrack
on you head & run i like i do.
in high school i put my girlhood on
& went to the mall to try on corsets
with my friends. we had one changing room.
our shadows shrunk. i was the only one
who didn't buy one. i lied & said
it was because i didn't have any money
but the truth was that i was terrified.
i saw how, just with bone & ribbon,
i could be stuffed into myself. now i like
to watch videos about corseters. see their waists
turn into moons. this is not erotic but
just practice. i want to know the technique
for splitting in two if i need to. i have 
done it before. on instagram i follow a turtle 
account. a turtle is born connected 
to his brother. two sides of a moon. 
they both move their arms as if they're swimming, 
the water, not able to hold them. i search desperately
for a video of them apart. wholeness is 
a myth of gender. i want the story to be over.
the reveal. their delight in two separate moons.
instead, there are no more videos on 
the account. i loose the second moon
in my scrambling. the one we have left
is the one we have left. my friends wore 
their corsets to bed, trying to squish 
their innards together. i was full of regret.
not just for not getting the corset but
for the ways my body refused me. in the window
the second moon was wading into
a little pond behind my friend's house. 
she was singing with the bull frogs. she was
glowing like a liver in the dark. 

cathedral of dominos

we should not move. we should
instead hold our breath to keep
the sky in the sky. i once found in
a field-side forest a cathedral 
of dominos. i cannot believe how much
i did inside it. i kissed boys. i kissed girls.
i wore wedding places. i ate a ghost
down to the bone. nothing destroyed it.
every day though i was aware of the walls.
how, one wrong breath could undo 
the whole thing. i would stare at 
my ceiling all night imagining someone else
finding my secret place & destroying it
while i was not there. i would then get up
& walk barefoot through our neighbor's yard
into the corn fields to find my cathedral intact.
once in awhile i would wonder who made it.
why would someone make something
so beautiful but so easy to destroy? i guess
that is the story of the world. a town 
up the street from where i grew up 
had a tornado the year before i was born. 
it tore doors off houses. followed
the railroad. a wheelless train. tore up
a whole street. today there are
mobile homes there & a few split houses. 
i started to find dominos everywhere. dominos
in the sink. in my hair. sometimes they would
talk to me & say, "build." i would of course,
what else is there to do with you hands &
all the dead? i lost track of the cathedral. 
they harvested the field. i would walk but could
never find it again. once though i found a domino
in my sibling's bedroom. that made me wonder
if maybe they had been there too. had we
been there at the same time? had they at least maybe
gotten to see it come undone? that is my only regret.
i wish i could have seen the way the dominos
fell into each other. the chatter of their teeth
as the walls peeled away, leaving us bare 
to the moon. 

toy boats

on the horizon is a bathtub full of hair.
let's take the scavenger hunt home. i find
a shoe & you find a portal. in the newspaper
there is an article about drones. they are
now delivering everyone a shopping bag
full of toothpicks & radios. do they know
something we don't? i prefer to know
less about what is coming. lakes will swell
& lakes will swallow & i'll still be here
with a rubber duck & a spoon. in the city
i parked bad & pretended not to get a ticket.
the ticket read, "i am so sorry, i am trying
to be an animal." i tried to find the parking cop
but he was not anywhere to be found. 
instead, the wind blew harsh & the roof pigeons 
were huddled on an awning. i think sometimes
about plucking one from the "wild" &
bringing them home. sometimes i too feel like
i was domesticated just to be sat outside where
the nights are heavy & everyone is hungry. 
i don't take baths. not really. my mom always has.
when it comes to letting the lightning down
all i can think about is, "who will drive the boat?"
the boat of course is plastic. a toy. whirlpool bound.
still, i am holding a fake steering wheel 
& pronouncing that it is time to hide. time to
barricade the sun. in the tub, i used to always
find sharks as a kid. their fins circled & then submerged.
i learned to hold my breath. to sit inside
my father. his body, a lighthouse. his hands,
like toy boats. i call the coast guard. they are
a.i. automated now. you can ask a thousand questions
& they will just respond, "we will be there soon."
for my whole life "soon" has lost its gills.
they never arrive. my father reaches in the waterfall. 
a ghost puts on his good hat & walks past
the house for the hundredth time. 
the bath i draw has whirlpools. i get in anyway.
let them suck me like a boba pearl up a fat straw.
someone's mouth is on the other side.
please tell me your mouth is on
the other side.  

tea set 

i first noticed it with the coffee mugs.
they used to hold a wild gulp
but came to only allow for cautious
sipping. each day my plates get smaller.
i am unsure if there is anything
i can do to slow this down. the spoons
are tiny. make it way too hard to eat yogurt.
in the first weeks i wondered if maybe i was
getting bigger. headed towards a 
clifford the big red dog kind of situation. 
sadly thought i still fit in the house. 
still have enough space on my slice 
of the bed. it is just the dishes & utensils. 
my tiny forks. i sit on the floor. tell my lover
we should have a tea party. he does not
enjoy things like that & he begs me
to take this seriously. i typically am not
the kind of person to stop an object in motion.
i prefer to let people break up with me. 
let the one ugly apple rot & turn
into chicken snacks. time turns into broth. 
i wish i could shrink with the bowls.
stand on the kitchen counter & sleep inside
one of the good slippers. instead i am
holding a knife that fits on the tip of 
my finger. i am standing with the fridge door open,
eating grapes from a pile on the shelf. 
i understand why my objects decided this
was their only option. it is tiring to hold.
to cut. to lift. i too shrink before a mouth.
i forgive them. find them in the drawer just
as grains of sand. my lover is outside
carving the earth like a turkey, looking for gold. 
i let the dust pass between open fingers. 
my lover knocks on our own front door
& yells for me to come outside.
in the field behind our house he has made
a knife the size of our house. he asks,
"will you help me bring it inside?" 

last chance 

i watch you paw through
the last chance bags at the back
of the market. where we go 
the grocers round up the fading
apples & wilted cilantro to make
dollar bags. i used to resent them.
the pooling rot liquid at the bottom
of the plastic. spilling mush strawberries
into the sink like melting hearts. 
now, i look forward to what we salvage.
sometimes we find worms & let them go
into the back yard. once, a crow.
another time the bag was murky.
when we opened it we found a little 
replica of ourselves. you were dry
like old carrots & i was ready to collapse
from the inside the way cucumbers do
when you have waited too long. 
we did not know what to do with them.
you said we should eat them. i said
we should bury them & never speak 
of it again. when i feel like the world
is ending i try to remind myself that 
we are not the first people to feel like we live
on a last chance. there is sugar in 
the heavy cantaloupe & the mold-knit blueberries.
when the sky was red from the fires
a few months ago i pretended we were
just inside one of the bags at the back
of the market. you told me it is dangerous
to play too much pretend in times
like this. you save the seeds. you swallow
all that you can. today we have grapes.
we eat them as fast as we can. 

eucharist 

the church we went growing up
was surrounded by corn fields. 
had a limestone kiln with a mary statue 
built into the belly. i haven't been catholic 
for years but i still dance with the sacraments. 
my favorite has always been communion. 
i live by the notion 
that we should take our gods into 
our mouths. that is why i eat blue corn 
& potatoes. why we grow tobacco 
at the edge of the garden where
it mingles with the orange sunflowers. 
why when we stumble upon a sassafras tree
in the knotted woods, that i break 
a leaf onto my tongue. the word "eucharist"
comes from a greek word meaning 
"thanksgiving." gratitude might be 
the only sacrament. the sun tastes like citrus in the
wet morning. at church there were always
people who did not want to touch
the body of christ with their hands. i always
thought they were strange. they would open
their mouths & let the ministers place
flesh on their tongue just for it to dissolve
like a rock thrown into a pond. 
i am unafraid to hold 
the divine. i pick berries until my hands 
are red. i cup the goats' faces. catch spiders
to let them go by the porch light.
my hands were made for communion.
for holding lovers. taking each other in
piece by piece. our flesh, my gods. 
the soil, a mother. the sun, all teeth. 

window potato

i potted you on the back stoop
facing the alley where the kids screamed
on plastic bikes & the people moving out
always dumped their half-crushed bedframes. 
the dirt from the grocery store still smelled
fresh & reminded me of every backyard i've ever
gotten to stand in. i noticed you 
opening your eyes in the bowl on the counter.
no one had taught me to swaddle my potatoes.
i guess it was only a matter of time. 
you sprouted one wide & hungry leaf.
i didn't do any googling. i just did what 
made sense. every heart should be buried
in a window. back then i was lonely in 
new & strange ways. my partner was turning
into a camero in the street at night. her eyes
were headlights & i had to cover my face.
the apartment cockroaches had finally 
dwindled to a bearable rate. one or two in a week
instead of marches & swarms. i needed you.
once you were planted you bloomed.
flowers & leaves. the sun felt more real
with you there in the living room. 
at night you would talk dirt with me 
& i would talk back. we would dream a pot 
big enough to burry me too. i told you
i would open a big yellow flower as well. 
i did not plant you right. i know now that
you are supposed to sever the arms 
from the heart. the potato came to rot 
in the earth. stole all your eyes with it. 
i asked over & over, "what if we drive 
to the park" & "what if i reach my hands
in deep." you ended after about a month. 
no new roots. a bundle of fingers reaching
for that round & burning sun. i took you
back out to the alley where the kids were
screaming all their plastic. my partner 
drove loud & endless. headlights 
in the thin hallway. a cockroach on the wall
as witness. i kept your flower on the windowsill.
a little shrine. until it molded. i am sorry
i didn't know how to keep you. 
my partner & i slept like oars of 
a spinning boat. i would paddle. then, her. 

a poem in which i forgive you

i understand the moon was loud
& so were you. you did not know
how to get home & so you ate
holes in the bottom of every backpack.
it was midnight in the city of pears.
softness, at every junction leaking into
the rusty drains. when it poured
we still went. boots & the railroad.
lights like fire worms. you did not mean
to spend your money down to pennies.
you did not mean to call you father
& beg for a ray gun. he drove up
early morning. sun still going runny egg against 
the clouds. he drove behind you
or you behind him. you prefer to remember
yourself as a follower even in the moments
when you pulled a wagon full of televisions.
you could have been gentler. you could
have learned the corner store man's name
& given him a tooth when you left.
i have a place where i keep doors.
they are swollen & all have drowning
behind them. you meant to become
a famous tongue dancing in everyone's mouth.
i do not know if i forgive you but 
i will try. afterall, i know my uncle once
went to ireland & told no one. walked for days
until he met a bog witch & she promised
he was going to survive. i want to know
if that promise extends to me. i do not think
it does. i forgive you for the mailboxes 
& the apartment you stood in once only
to rip up the lease. i forgive you too
for the glove boxes. buying her cars
& asking her to drive back home & bring you
everything. the screws from the windows.
spoons & tables. the dresser on the street corner,
one drawer hanging out. your father's hands on
the steering wheel. water all above
threatening to turn us into eels. you always
come through in the end. blood like a monsoon. 

cigarette smoke

outside our neighbor is 
pressing the filter to her lips. 
the wind carries fragments
of tobacco to me. there is 
a fence between us but still 
i can hear her phone call with
a credit card company 
or a daughter. i hold onto 
the smoke to travel to my grandmother's
living room. her big blue chair. 
she smoked almost constantly.
the pouring out of smoke from
between her wrinkled lips. 
the apartment had a halo or a haze.
it would make me sick so we'd spend
almost half the visit in 
the apartment courtyard. in the last years
the fountain stopped working & became
a home for birds & bugs. once a dragonfly 
circled the greening belly of water.
sometimes my partner & i joke
that we need a cigarette. neither of us
have smoked. i think it is hereditary.
the need to hold fire between your fingers.
to drink it down. i had another neighbor 
once who smoked. once in awhile
he got a cigar. we never talked about it
but i would stand by the window
when he smoked it. i could hear 
the leaves in his breath. his lungs
like sacks of used fire wood. the body
warm. the place between my grandmother's
middle & index finger was worn
like a loved couch. a soft stain from
the newports. she never talked about smoking.
no warnings against it. instead, it had 
become like a limb. here is where 
i have learned to catch fire. 

sea foam

it rained all week at the beach.
what a gift to know so many forms
of water. we let the wind off the shore
make kites of us. our lungs in the clouds.
the sea gulls stood, beaks to gale,
cutting the wind into ribbons. we looked
far out where the waves argued
like old brothers. on thursday we stayed up late.
i read your cards & you tried to read mine.
you got the death card & i got
so many cups. i could never hold this much
water even if i tried. sometimes i think about
stopping t for a year so that i can remember
the shape emotions used to take beneath my skin.
the rivers & the tide pools.
i remember one year at the shore my father
spent almost the whole time in the attic watching
dvds of mash. we talk about him.
how we're glad he didn't come this year.
the story of our family is a story of 
scattering. shells in the crash.
us, either side of a clam. when we walk on the beach
i follow the sea foam. soft on my feet. 
the edge between the warm ocean and the hushing sand.
it stormed one night when we were at the shore
as kids. a wild storm.
water & birds against the roof.
we slept side by side near the window. 
saw lightning illuminating the cracks in 
the big blue-dark sky.