third grade autopsy 

i liked to take apart hallways. paper clips
& as ragged worm garden. lips were
a secret talismen. we talked
to bathroom ghosts & in the mirrors 
found versions of our oldest selves.
to be close to the linoleum is to be
close to god. holding communion wafers.
lighting candles. my fingers often
turned into chimney swifts,
flying off to find their consecrated towers.
in the dark, i summoned demons 
& named them after myself.
taking the dull kitchen steak knife 
& severing the day open as wide
as if could go just to look at its organs.
soft planets in the galactic water.
a pear. an apple. boyfriends with buttercups 
in their hair. the tree that fell.
branches were strewn in the grass. we looked for
our long lost limbs. to be alive was 
to break open every single tooth.
bloodied little veins. a boy liked to follow me
into my caves at night & say,
"pilot pilot pilot." i cried. the boy
was not there but his tongue was,
lapping water from a dripping faucet.
i never meant to grow older. i never meant
to become so much less wise. it is like
that gift disapated day after day.
nesting my hands. kissing a boy 
with curly hair & watching as he turned
into a dead deer. side of the road.
headlights like thrown dinner plates.
a father in the basement with the boiler, 
knocking on the pipes
all through the night. 

subtweet

some people just have to set the television on fire. 
it's almost like they have no idea 
that's where i live. once, when i was a teenager, 
i tried to grow a sunflower inside the skull of our old set. 
some people drug me by my ears 
out to the chicken coop. some people 
took a knife & carved "daughter" into the firewood.
i will tell myself, they didn't know better but
of course they did. i think we almost always do.
why do we keep pushing the stone when we know 
it's going to roll down? some people have livers 
made of gold. some people do not even remember what they do. 

do you want to hold him?

i'm taking care of our pet shop terrarium ghosts.
i talk to the heat lamp & start calling it "god."
wash your hands before you do. there is a train station
full of pigeons waiting for us. do you remember
the fruit in the city? how it begged to be cradled?
i used to rest my head on your shoulder while
we turned into snakes. all of a sudden it was 
just me holding a rat. in the parking lot everyone was terrified. 
race cars with race car dreams. i want to know if you miss me.
on that island, everyone was starving no matter
how much we ate. there was no such thing as bare feet.
drinking a silver diet. our bullet hole window pet shop.

blocked number(s)

he is trying to be a walnut in my head again.
i see him in diner menus & take out boxes 
& headless trees. once, i met someone who wasn't haunted.
that was how i knew i was still living in a maze.
i look at my blocked numbers & i see he has tried
to embed a message in the numbers. numerology says,
"there was a before & then there was an after."
i wish i was talking about just one boy. it could be
any of them or the one that nests instead of me. 
i think gender is really just about who swallowed who 
inside your chest. i have a snake with a belly full of men. 
sometimes i unblock his number. stay up all night to look at it.

dress pattern

in the womanhood store i was trying to sell psychology.
here is a diagram of everything you told yourself
you weren't allowed to want. fiberglass beds for staying vigilant.
in many ways, what a dress means is the only litmus test
for what a gender is. is the dress dangerous or not?
i cut my dress from fish scales & fire. it is the same pattern
my grandmother used to make a wedding. 
nightmares come prepackaged. i buy the ones that involve 
failing at having a body. my hair falls out like leaves.
in my gender, it is always autumn. i am always the dressmaker.
the pattern, incomplete. guard towers. a needle in my mouth.
other women saying, "almost." other men steering clear.

mouse symphony 

we shrank the kitchen to the size of a plum.
it was no use anymore. we weren't going to cook.
all the birds outside were talking about sitcoms 
& plucking children from the sidewalk to take as their own. 
i crouched down to peer into a hole in the wall 
to see if i could spy on the mice that morning. 
they wore t-shirts that said, "no more gods." 
they were organizing a strike. i asked them what they're striking 
& they said "that is for us to know." i sat & thought about
how i would be a fairly good mouse. 
i wished i could join their efforts. felt desperately alone.
still, most days, i want to be those bodies & not my own.

my brother's bass case

we put the body away with the bow. bow of
a boneless ship. let's take turns guarding
the portal. zippers that ask too many questions.
he would come to the mirror & call as many bodies
as he could. cradling the monster until it was
ready to sing. i have always failed at my instruments.
i am too much like a father. i come to each string 
& say, "trapeze." trip over the beast dreams around me.
instead, he comes made of walnut shells. he comes
& sleeps inside the skeleton alongside it's slanted mouth.
with bodies, there is always a smaller truth inside.
nesting doll. nesting flute. i hear them fighting all night. 

frost/bites

each finger has a cathedral empty of birds.
i climbed a pinnacle just to find it littered with
chalices. they are worshipping in the crawl space again.
i would sever my own tongue & use it as fire wood
if it would mean summer again. the flowers die 
as closed fists. a shiver moves, vole-like 
through the pipes of my apartmeny building.
we dance to tell our blood, "this is a bath house."
only it is not a bath house. it is an ice cube tray.
i pull my teeth out to look for gold. a match says,
"at least it isn't" but doesn't finish the sentence.
false apples. a laughing oven. my toes twist like stop signs.

brushing my imaginary hair

i don't think i want to conjure my hair again
but she was a good family to me when the world 
lived only on a screen. i call that year the great plug.
i saw a ghost go in & out of a power outlet each night.
is it common for curtains to catch on fire? we have gas heat.
a boiler. i wake up in the night to make sure nothing is on fire.
my hair used to tell stories. my hair used to
pick out dresses & try to eat them. for a month
in the hurried summer, i let a bird nest in my hair.
she had to find a new home. i try to soothe. hush follicles. 
restless ball point pens. endless noctural neighbors.
here we are, lush & unseeable. here i am, the ghost. 

self portrait as dead nestling

we were almost there. "almost" is a word 
for mountains though & all i have 
is the ghost of a spoon. my coin-glossy hunger.
the wind used to give me each of my feathers.
to me, trust came naturally. i trusted
the arms of the oak tree & mother with her
wedding ring flights. to see another beak is 
to watch the self rip open. sometimes i felt
like i was just another tongue. downy static.
ladeled rain. lollipop sun. i blame myself. i say, 
"i asked the wind for too much." or, maybe, i am 
the earth's thumb print. not a martyr. just a haunting.