kitchen on the moon

i walk to the edge of my yearning.
break bread into smaller & smaller castles.
barefoot as an astronaut, following 
a highway made of ginger. o moon, will you give me 
a refrigerator full? eggs spinning with 
thoughts of feathers. i woke up once in a nest.
mars red through tree branches. why do i always 
try to get far away from myself to feast?
to rest? as if there might be a place i could go
where my body would unpuzzle itself. blood like
a velvet tide. i eat standing at the counter
by the spigot & cutting board. i leave crumbs.  

on estrangement 

on holidays, i sleep in the extra space ship.
it is my fault the house is full of forks.
for so long i tried to live on different moons.
one had a frozen ocean. another had star-eyed fish.
the last was desolate except for a pile
of broken picture frames. they were empty. 
don't worry though, the space ship doesn't work.
not any more. it is just a lovely place to plant
your teeth & wait for them to become roses.
tell me, who has grown you roses? i am waiting.
last week a friend asked me, "what is rest to you?"
i said, "not thinking of what comes next."

paper submarine

i keep saying "this is going to be okay"
when the water is saying, "you are
a dead boy." i found the ocean 
like a fist. bruises it gives me. fish in the deep 
with eyes made of light bulbs. i thought
i knew how to dive, to swim. ignored every ship wreck. 
sometimes we think we can will the truth. 
i am not drowning. i am not drowning. water pressure.
weight of all the planets. their boney shoulders.
i am not just trying to put out a fire.
opening my mouth. fingers trying to find my gills.
the vessel is not a vessel. it is an unsound bridge.

leaky ceiling

in the abandoned house off main street
i found my wild knowing. bird beaks
kalideoscoped. chandelier in my chest. spearmint bush
bursting through floorboards. 
everything has jagged edges when you are fifteen.
doorways chew you pink. i would sleep with my eyes open, 
waiting for a flock to come & scoop out my tongue. 
this is a hymn for those who arrive to empty places. 
hallway of blackberries. i plucked door knobs from my manias. 
rolled them down the hallway. i'd think, "does anyone else
hear the moon turning over?" 
no? only me? 

snake winding

lets take a walk in the python & cottonmouth.
my tongue slips out & says something
i'm going to regret. i hide chicken hearts
where ever i can forget them. under the pillow
i find a knife. it is not my knife. 
hasn't your body every knotted around itself?
we keep venom in a glass jar in case we need
to make an antidote. i want to be cured 
of all my visitations. the voices that arrive
with a cleaver in both hands. blood is snake
& so are my lips. rattlers signal the end of a color. 
goodbye blue. goodbye copper. hello viper. 

ghost houses

i feather & you collect me like kindling. 
in the country something is always entering
ghosthood. you take your flashlight & i take 
a crystal bowl. in the backyard, the birds die
one by one, dandelions. yellow & then
nothing but breath & then scattered. 
we hang ghost houses in the trees for the birds. 
tell me one creature who isn't in the process of returning. 
i sleep walk down the highway towards the water tower.
eat wild onion until my teeth turn to eggs.
hatching little spirits. we whistle 
& the trees whistles back.

it runs in the family

my father counts tornados with tallies that
he etches in a pillar in the living room.
i want to tell him he is so doomsday. 
the tornados are just trying to laugh & besides 
there's still water left. i got out to feed the tornados. 
handfuls of cherries for them to red with. these days, 
i red all the time. dipping my face in bruises. 
finding a wound in the dirt to talk to. i need 
a fresh destruction. my father eats new moons & then 
doesn't open his lips for days. what are you trying to contain?
if i shouted like i need to, i'd just disaster this house.
the forest would be five tally marks. 

inflatable planets

i shed my breathe like a buffalo herd.
being with you was rushing into crowded rooms. 
we sit in the yard & look up into the night sky's mouth.
i know i do not love you & yet here i am
with a candle & a survival kit, trying to future.
you can spit your soul out if you are not careful.
i fill a balloon with it. all the silk & the gloss.
how you used to put your fingers down my throat
to feel the sleeping animals there. i'd tell you
to "stop" & you would say, "how do i know
i'll ever see you again?" bullied gag reflex.  
this is how i made the planet, from my own pounding. 

crop top

my stomach is the playground where
i go to be feminine. if a garment could teach me
self-praise. i do not want to be celebrated,
i want to be indulged. drape me in honey combs. 
crack open the geode & feed me crystal & for you
i will do the same. my fingers in your violin. 
hairs grow like a thinned forest across my skin. i carry fire
in a plastic bucket. hold summer in a walnut half. 
blindfolded & following lavendar. there will be too much 
to eat. there will be no noise of restriction.
only the abundance we knew was there. to feast 
is to have a noisy body & still carve revelry from it.

fear of it being too late 

in the kitchen we trip on our own reflections.
on the wall, there is an old iron bean grinder
full of teal aquarium rocks. in each rock, 
a little version of the scene. this is the night 
the fridge stops working & i see my father furious-cry
as he grabs a pack of grapes & a baggie of lunch meat,
tearing the fridge's guts apart & saying,
"i can fix this." for weeks it had flickered 
& he had smacked its side. "piece of shit," he said.  
i had too many fingers & all i wanted to do was help.
a little girl. the holes hunger made in that house.
all our faces in the rocks. tiny desperate ghosts.