pale popsicles

i love to be unsupervised in 
the crook of august's knee. 
our brotherhood blooms & i 
get a nice scare on my elbow.
we out grow the bikes & so we
let them roam free without us
in the rolling fields now thick with corn. 
our parents never come home.
the house asks us too many questions like,
"are you hungry?" & "how old are you?"
i am maybe ten or maybe twelve. 
we melt popsicles all day in the sun.
snakes arrive & never let me catch them.
ants carry away all of our eyelashes
so that our eyes are moons, blazing & bright. 
the cars outside are all going to
a big hole in the ground. sometimes
you try to hail one down. i try to tell you
they are not stopping. the night is 
playing hopscotch at the old playground.
the old oak is still alive & keeping locks
of our hair. the popsicle 
supply runs low until it is only
the pale ones left. we are never sure
what their flavor is supposed to be.
pineapple or coconut maybe. maybe bone.
our bones sometimes get so loud that
we can see them through the skin.
they talk like wind chimes. the syrup 
is strange & sweet. we take turns trying
to name this final flavor. "hot apple."
"de-tongued melon." none of them ever stick.
we do not like them but we eat them anyway.
the soonness of the world is too much
to waste too much time avoiding sugar.
when the night comes it is cool & full of bats. 
they ask us what we are doing with our bones
on display. we run inside. crack glow sticks
& hold them beneath our faces. 
"did you see what i did?" you ask.
i did not but i lie & say, "i did." 

costume contest

how good are you at putting on
the little face? i sew my costume 
for the day from blood & butter.
eat my breakfast in the mirror
to make sure that the body doubles
know that i am always watching.
i tell my lover that it is incredibly important
to walk outside in the dark sometimes
if you want to see the same monsters
that i do. i have never won before.
the contest is strange & i do not totally
understand the rules. often there are ribbons.
on really sunny days a man in a death machine
parades around town & everyone comes
out of their houses to wave. i wait
on my podium with my makeup just right.
the judges could be a mailbox or they
could be a sign that says, "smile you are
on camera." when i was small, my favorite day
was halloween. i dreamed about it
all year. one day to feel like i was not alone
in having to try & put on a body.
school buses the size of shoes. a man 
stands challenging me to a costume contest.
i bring a spoon. he brings a gun. i tell him
the truth which is that i mostly do not
even believe i am human. i collect
the stars like pebbles. i try to call home.
no one picks up. the number goes to
a telephone booth in the middle of 
the old school my boyfriend used to go to. 
i bring a lung to a knife fight. i bring 
a television to a church. plug it in
to help me pass the time. what is a costume
if everyone is dressed? if the party doesn't happen
& instead we are looking for an outlet
to plug in a mouth. i used to lay out 
my outfit for the next day like 
a chalk outline. on the worst days
it would stand up & run around & i'd
have to go & catch it. the man accepts defeat.
a spoon is no match for a gun.
the category is hungry & i have brought mine. 

sugar

we laid in a twilight giant's hand.
movie in the glare. girl legs june hairy 
& crossed. i often found as a girl 
that my connections were brief
& intense. i loved my friends best
when we weren't in a group. when 
i could catch glimpses of their butter. 
her soft white carpet beneath bare feet.
i can't remember if i stayed the night.
the moon, like a birthday balloon 
looming in the sky's eye. we didn't
talk about boys or girls. i think we talked
about birds & where we wanted 
to go when we left this place. 
we couldn't find any snacks in her house.
i was tired. heavy. she lived near the edge
of town that overlooked the highway.
all the shops are empty now. all the 
cars have never landed where they thought
they were going. she took out a box 
of sugar packets. opened one on her tongue.
i swear my freckles buzzed like children. 
all the lamplight & the sweet mirror smell
of her blankets. she handed a packet to me.
we didn't have sugar like this in my house.
white. blooming. i tore the corner.
felt my mouth water. emptied the sugar
onto my tongue just like she had. 
instantly, everything was ringing. a bite
of sweet sand. the sharks beneath the clouds.
some movie, unraveling on the tv. 
knees brushing. not a love poem but also
a love poem. for every packet i ate she ate two.
more skilled in sugar. i felt my girlhood 
turning to sugar. dissolving in the spit 
& the streetlight. i think i walked him
despite the curfew. i think my teeth rung
like bells. i don't know if we ever did that again. 

hair tie

my hair is finally long enough to pull back again.
sometimes i feel like i'm getting younger.
not physically. definitely not physically. 
just in the sense that my hungers are returning.
when i was small i begged my mom to braid
my hair. she did once. we were all busy. 
the car was crashing & the windows were full
of wasps & the house was falling & rising like waves.
i don't remember what it felt like but if i reach
my hands behind my head i can pretend. 
in high school sometimes girls would play 
with each other's hair in chorus. a french bread.
a crown braid. a fish tail braid. mine was 
short & bleached & angry. frayed ends like 
bad paintbrush tips. the last hair cut i got 
in a shop was early covid. a dead mall off 
the mountain highway. a man with shaky hands 
buzzed the sizes & used his little brush 
to sweep my neck. i stared at the blue barbicide 
soaking his tools. he wore his mask over his mouth
but below his nose. i took to cutting my own hair
in the bathroom mirrors & then one day 
i just couldn't do it anymore. my whole body
was screaming. i was ancient or i was new.
i shaved my head down to the scalp. i filmed it
but i don't have the video anymore. piles of hair.
even with an undercut i had so much more
than i thought i did. after i still
i had all these hair ties & nothing to do with them. 
stretching them. putting them on my wrist. 
i didn't grieve the hair. i felt more adult than
i had ever before. apartment. car payment. 
shaved down to the root. the snowplow
pushing all our breath to the river. my partner jokes
that i should put my hair in pigtails. 
i do once in the bathroom mirror & i want
to weep. i feel like i'm maybe ten. ten was 
the last time i think things were maybe not so bad.
not so loud & hurried. come on come & grow
something you will lose. i brush my hair slow.
the front pieces run astray but i can pull it back.
i am going to ask someone to braid it
& we will sit & gossip as if the world is not
thicker than ever before. as if we are maybe 
in chorus & singing a song we will soon forget. 

the view

i keep asking different family members
if they are going to sell the house.
the aunts' place is the closest thing i have
to a grandparent's home. the magnolia outside 
knows my hands from afternoons 
spent climbing as high as i could. 
in the yard, the weeds i used to help my dad
cut back year after year are back & devouring
the fence. in the living room i keep thinking
the television in on. i stayed there one summer
& every day when i got home from work
they would be watching 'the view.'
i never watched with them. they enjoyed
the most boring tv i can imagine. if it wasn't
the view it was a baseball game or even
baseball game re-runs. the pace in that house
was always slower. as a kid i craved it.
took any chance i could get to visit them,
tailing along with my uncle on summer weekends. 
played the half-dead electric organ
in the living room. turned on an old radio in the attic. 
i keep asking if they are going to sell the house
because i know they are. i don't know
what i am looking for in their responses.
maybe a comforting, "it has to be done"
or a resilient, "we can find a way to keep it."
i am helping my dad empty the place. 
one of the chairs from their kitchen table
now in my living room, orphaned 
from the set. before i left the house, i tried
to turn the tv on. i couldn't figure it out.
the buttons, worn-off or jammed in. 
wished i was there one more time eating dinner
while the tv talked around us. while the aunts,
each in their respective recliners, snacked
on pretzels. drank pepsi & ginger ale. 
i don't manage to get the tv to turn on. 
i ask my dad last, "are you going to sell the house?"
he says, "we have to." goes into the details.
how uncle john owns a slice & then him
& then his brother. i don't respond. i just keep working.
imagine the house in sections. if we could
keep nothing else, maybe just the rec room. 

assembly required 

i have been reading up
on how to become a ghost.
i think i was made to stay
past my welcome in a house
no longer my own. i was born
in the united states which means
i was fed a sick promise 
that everything should arrive to us whole. 
someone else can fuss with the pieces. 
when i get ikea furniture, i throw out
the instructions & call my father.
he parks his spaceship on the roof
& we both build something
i did not want. my favorite desk was 
an accident. not meant to be
so tall & narrow. i have been trying
to resist this place by honoring
fragments or something. as a child i sucked 
on wild onions. fresh from the ground.
each a little planet full of screaming
desires. i have never managed 
to develop patience. instead, 
i eat the grapes now. i turn on 
the oven & climb inside. a little
poetic heritage. golden in the heat.
golden in the night. i have managed 
to learn once in awhile. this house 
with its holes in the walls & spider roof.
hammer & hammer. the wires
in my parents' upstairs that throb 
when we are too eager to stay 
in the light. i picture a garden
of screws. a forest of forest. i do not want
to see pieces where there are none. 
when i'm feeling really awful i drive
the my childhood cvs. an old woman in town
told me, "that used to be swamp."
i like to stand in the parking lot
& picture it. an instruction manual
comes in the mail without the materials.
i do not follow it. who knows 
what it was for. if it was from god,
it was best that i disposed of it.
i have no interest in the divine.
i want to love here & now &
without any words to live by. 

just the clothes 

a trash bag doesn't hold as much
as you think it will. in my aunts' house
we try to manage just the clothes today.
there is never just clothes. my brother,
my father, and me flit between rooms. 
us, with the task of emptying the place. 
she was the last of her three sisters, our aunts.
they are technically my great aunts
but i think there are too many qualifiers 
in family words. they tended me & that's all
i need you to know. there is so much physical stuff 
that none of us know how & where to go.
i keep saying, "just the clothes" as if maybe
that could ground our wandering. handfuls
of stale mints. burst batteries in dead machines.
my father is searching for the deed to the house.
instead, he finds bank statements & her birth certificate. 
our aunt's tiny footprints as shadows on the softened paper. 
i become the only one harvesting clothes.
something about oldest not-daughters. 
on the railings is the last load of laundry our aunt did herself. 
nightrobes, stained in strange & fresh ways. 
i feel as if i've done something wrong when
i take them down & let another trash bag
devour them. i want to put them back. a gesture
towards return. when we were small & the house was 
clean & nested in. our footfalls are muffled by
the thick carpets. i pull trash bag after trash bag. 
so many clothes. my father says, "i don't want
to throw her life away." i think of her 
ten or so years ago. her peach pink lipstick
& permed hair. i don't know what she'd say
to us here like this. i try to conjure an answer. 
permission. but if i'm being honest, i think 
she would be the stubborn one. not like her sisters
who i think would throw away half the house eagerly.
i could imagine her saying, "not yet, not yet" 
to everything. i feel the same way. i make a pact
with her that i will keep more than we should. 
we do not finish packaged the clothes. 
the house is spring-cool. before we go 
we stand in the yard. the pear tree, smaller
than i remember it. the magnolia 
getting ready to bloom. i promise my dad,
"i'll come back with you until it's done." 

charcoal artist 

the dog's vision is contagious.
soon i am only seeing grey world
& it is better that way. once, in college
a charcoal artist came into
my bedroom & sketched me
without any bones. i don't remember
if he was a friend or a stranger.
i was popular on my hall because i had
an air conditioner. i get a clothesline
& hang up my skin. there is 
a flyer in our town for a missing dog.
these always activate my savior complex.
i drive around for hours looking,
as if i might be the one to find the creature.
i get the whole montage going in my head.
finding the animal. coaxing him from
behind a bush. driving him to his owner.
the praise. who doesn't just
want to be praised? i sometimes find
a missing sign with my face on it.
i tear them down & eat them whole.
upstairs we have a set of charcoals. 
sometimes i will take a piece out & draw
my grief. great spirals & a burning bush. 
my lover once painted my legs in full color.
all the purples & reds & yellows. bruises
& scrapes. i wanted to see them in charcoal. 
i too am the offspring of fires. the ships
that crashed & the parchment animals 
going skinless in the dark. there are lost dogs 
standing on the roof one morning.
i tell them to wait until i can find someone
to help. there is no one to help. in a town
of mailboxes & portraits there is 
no one to help. i sketch the dog from
the missing sign. the rain comes. turns
paper into pulp. washes out the image
until there is only black & white & blur. 

wallpaper maker's lover

i know it is selfish but i look for myself
in the designs. the great scroll unspooling
from the wrack. he wipes his palms
on his apron. runs a hand through
his hair. the sun enters barefoot
in the spring. i tell no one that i come
to watch him. sit in the crooked chair
while he repeats the same symbols 
over & over. arabesque & apple. they always
look like bodies to me. our bodies.
a bent knee. his curly hair. he has never
seen my home. how could he? it is small.
a rented room. how could i explain
bringing another man quietly into 
my darkness? instead, we have this place.
his workshop. the repetition of our lives 
is like that of the wallpaper. never quite 
perfect. a faded arm. an off-kilter print.
the ink stains. we have to meet before 
his workers arrive. the apprentices & 
the laborers. their aprons, just like his. 
once, a boy came too early, found 
the workshop door locked. i had never seen
him so fearful. we redressed, his face
still flushed. he whispered, "pretend
you are eyeing the designs." i understood.
he wanted me to act as if i were
a customer. i did not need to pretend
my desires. i dream often of 
my lover & i re-doing the wallpaper 
of my room. him smoothing down 
the edges of a fresh design. the wallpaper
in my room is horrible. dull. not made
by hands like his. he has asked me before
if i would like to be his apprentice. 
it would after all give us more excuses
to be behind doors together. i have always
turned him down though. i don't want
to ruin the magic of it. how he can spin 
an image over & over. cloak rooms
in his brilliant mirages. instead,
i will keep searching for myself in them. 
my back arched. his hand on my hip. 

to those who are no longer animal 

i just want the wild to be real.
for everyone to react to the horrors
as we were meant to, with wailing
& pots & pans & fire. instead,
i am just one video game prophet.
sometimes the government knows
my name & sometimes it doesn't.
i take pictures of our house. i take pictures
of our eyes. i want evidence
in case. in case in case. everything is coming
but no one knows when. there is
a new terror in the laboratory. they make
guns. they make promises. i fill 
my car with gasoline & the dinosaurs 
scream. they say, "what is a tower?"
i want to talk to someone at the end.
someone on another side. i do the ouija stuff.
i do mirror talking. they tell me
that there is only one way through 
this kind of ending but they do not 
tell me what that one way is. i pull
my red wagon with me when i go out
to the freshly tilled field where
the stars go to dance this time of year.
i ask them to gather around me. 
i want to show them how to scream. i just
need someone else to do it with me.
i need to lose my mind in a crowd of light.
i beg them, "how do i remain an animal?"
they inform me, "you do not."
we scream like only the rocks know how.
break the glass case of the sky. 
pick up the shards. i ask them if they
will help me knock on doors. i am imagining
our whole town screaming. i want that
so badly. the stars tell me that is not
their role. they climb up back into the sky.
voices soft & far away. across the road
my neighbor lets his dog
out back. did he hear the stars?
he must have. he must.