wedding rings 

we were married in a bullet shell.
ate handfuls of dirt
pretending it was cake.
that year lasted longer & longer.
first a month of thirty days
& then a month of eighty. 
nights kept multiplying.
two moons arrived as brothers.
i orbited you like a wedding ring.
then, you stole all my shoes 
& threw them in a pit of fire telling me,
now you have no feet to run with.
all i could think of was
how my fathers wedding ring became so tight 
he had to take the ring off. his red fingers.
a noose is a place you are pulled from.
galleries of nooses.
now, my father's ring lives 
like a slug in the bathroom.
neon light gods gathering.
once, he lost the ring in a coral reef
in cancun. paid divers 
to retrieve it. that glint of gold
like a winking eye. you were always
a version of him as all our lovers 
are chalk outlines of our fathers. 
ice skating around my eyelids.
i plucked dandelions
from my throat. you took me diving
to go look for my face.
found a grotto of mirrors.
pointing to each on you said,
you know you are nothing but
a photograph? i know he was sort of right.
i find the frame every day.
here is where replica spit me out.
i did love him i think. laid awake
each night pulling the ring as hard as i could.
widening & widening, eventually i made it
the size of a bear trap & then
i slipped out. still though, i see
a gold ring around all my vision.
turning & turning, i expect to find
the rim. instead, i am the empty 
where a finger could go. 
he screamed in to envelops 
& mailed them to me. i do not open them.
they pile by the front door. 
i live in a metal mint tin.
my father doesn't wear his wedding ring.
it shrinks to the size of a tooth. 

invisible zoo

you took me to the invisible zoo
& told me to hold out my hand
to feed the lions.
in their enclosure
everything was a stalking.
gifts used to arrive on my porch
from you. i told you i was
a reptile house, not a girl.
at least not for you anymore.
we held hands in front of the otters.
the wide empty tank
full of splashing.
we played hide and go seek
in the hippo cage. all stampede.
oh how you liked to
make the earth shake.
your fingers making pelts of me.
how i wanted to be wanted
to be wanted to be wanted.
a gift shop stood 
in my mouth. visitors pawing through
shelves of stuffed giraffes.
have you ever fed a giraffe?
their tongues are the size
of baby legs. troughs of feed.
laying down amoung the hay.
i learned how to chew 
from goats. they used to stand
on our bed posts.
you shouldn't have left me
in a place like this.
i covered my eyes
& tried to will them chameleon
or at least zebra. a needed
to look behind myself 
& infront of myself
all at once. the tiger is endangered 
& so is the albino snake
that coiled around my ankle. 
each promise you made now animal-less.
you pointed to the glass
& said, "don't you see them."
i leaned on your shoulder & lied 
to keep you happy. "i do. i do."

star death

we all wore gold 
for the funeral. 
stood on the roof
& watched as 
black confetti fell 
like cherry blossoms
from a static sky. 
on the television
no one was talking
about the death of
several hundred stars.
instead the anchor man said,
"tomorrow we will be happy."
we tried to take pictures
but they all came out blurry.
minnows in a pot of boiling water.
i felt my skin like a screen door
blowing open. all the stars 
underneath, weeping.
a star goes with no warning.
one day is riding a bicycle
in their constellation
& the next is coming down
in pieces. is not replaced
with another star. a big hole
in the sky that night. we stuck
our fingers in it to check
if it was real. taking handfuls
of the confetti before they turned
to dust. i want to know
what is taken when a star goes.
the foot prints & the alien trees 
& the shoulders. sometimes
stars are just marbles
in my pocket but that night
they were spiders or sisters 
or at least thumbs
all sticking through the loam.
we wore gold & did not undress
for several days. until the wind
had blown away the remnants.
until we just referred to
that quadrant of sky as
"we will be happy." still,
i reach up to touch the frayed edges.
wonder if the stars chose to depart
or if it was sudden
& irresistible. 

red-wing blackbird 

i want to be wildlife
which is not the same 
as wanting to live a wild life.
i kind of already have that.
no, i want to grow like kudzu
& reeds & ivy. kissing every neck 
that wants me. we go on
a nature walk. i see us 
as two birds. talking grass all around.
your long legs in the marsh water.
my feet gripping tall reeds.
nearby, across an overpass
cars rush towards the water
as if they intend to plunge in.
i picture a road that leads
right to the water. we try to
identify the birds. argue over
whether the one above us 
is plover or a tern. agree that
you are the egret & i am the red knot.
on the way back i want to know then
who is the red-wing blackbird.
he followed up, calling & asking 
“why so soon?” which i thought meant
“why are you leaving so soon”
but really it could be anything. 
i guess i am a pretty soon person.
birds know more about us than
our brothers. you preen yourself 
in the car mirror. i want to ask you if
you want to follow the cars 
& drive past the neon hotels &
into the ocean. i know i can be drastic.
this is not a poem with answers.
i wish i was the red-wing blackbird 
i really do but he is gone now
& so are we. i think 
i’m going to tell you how i want
to grow unbroken & untamed
which is funny because we were just
on a nature walk which is 
both broken & tamed. but not 
the red-wing blackbird. 
he laughed at us.

seagull

on the board walk we say, "retro"
like it means tomorrow we will be shiny.
the day has webbed feet 
& all i want is to be 
the shell you search for 
in the wet surf. instead, 
everyone we find is broken.
jagged teeth of men
underneath the waves. 
someone stands on the sand bar 
with his arms outstreched
like he is going to be taken. do i
want to be taken?
i try to remember what hot dogs tasted like
as i walk. like snapping your fingers
& a blossom of grease. 
t-shirts grin with plastic teeth.
a dart game with giant dolphins as prizes.
no one is lucky anymore i think
except maybe the houses a block from water.
as we pass them i ask, "how much do you think
those are worth?" their owners 
don't live here & they don't believe
in sea gulls. i hold & ice cream cone.
the cream comes shaped like my baby face.
watching it melt all over your hands.
the sun says, "hell or high water."
we are sea gulls in our sifting. 
maybe there is a gem 
inside this dumpster. maybe a 
dead crab belly up on the asphalt.
finding another gull to follow
above the water. our reflections
like scars moving across a stomach.
we eat. burn in the UV rays.
a folded treasure map. a seafood shack where
we enter & the person at the counter says,
"we don't serve birds." the trail 
of feathers we left followed us
all the way here. shrimp standing 
in the display case like quotation marks
arounds the word sea gull. flying 
without any sense of when 
the next carnival will give us 
names we can use for a summer.
if i believed in gods i would have
bought less plastic. a beach towel falls
from my mouth & you fold it gentle 
as you always do. we sit 
at a diner made of fish bones.
eyes as dimes. "this was beautiful,"
i say to my own reflection
in a estuary pool. rustle of branches.
a devil in the trees licks his hands clean. 
you pluck me again. wash my face
in an outdoor shower as you ask,
"i wonder how many people
have had sex here?" the beetles
wish they were wedding rings.
my face feels like a motel on the water.
someone on every balcony.
watching the snow cone sun set.


 

shag rug

i took my purple & made a forest
for the house to grow from.
buying seeds at the grocery download.
a fork in the garbage disposal
which is better than in the outlet.
did you know there is a device
they will install in your closet now
that can take a vacation for you?
i buy the newest model of spaceship 
& try to essemble it myself.
a missing button. i stay grounded 
on the planet of the pull-tabs.
my screw driver is a father. my father 
is sleeping on the rug. is petting
the rug & saying when he was a boy
he dreamed of being american enough
to paint the grass whatever color 
his mother wanted. his mother is
a spatula or else maybe hiding
in the salt shaker. our salt shakers
are shaped like watermelon slices.
i bit into your shoulder like
it was a melon. i wish i had
a rind to lean on when everything
is aspirational like this. coffee pours
from the sink. we forgot we had this installed
& i am thirtsy. my wife asks me, "i thought you
were going to finish the spaceship today?"
i don't hear her finish her sentence.
i am already staring at the grill
& wondering how hot the sun can get & if
the sun has plans to die.
my wife is a blow dryer. 
i find a lucky outlet. pet the carpet too.
the back of a god or a brother.
we break bread like knuckles.
get to work in the shadow 
of a future purchase. i would like
one of everything, please. 

ornithophobia or fear of being carried away by birds 

i am walking on a length of floss.
yesterday, i took my shoes off
& stored them in my head.
believed my crazy was becoming
a new person. the outlines of strangers
always have wings & in my conversations 
with the hat man he says i have nothing
to worry about except for birds.
birds do not run in my family 
but once i saw my youngest brother
standing on a ledge & trying to fly.
when some people leap they become doves
& others become asterisks on the ground.
i am alarmed by my body 
& what it asks for. necklace of teeth.
grubs with their windowed organs.
i am less afraid of where they'll take me
as i am of the leaving. i imagine 
the world beneath my like a beach ball.
swallowing helium, i could just
become my own balloon. one of my friends says
birds were designed by the government 
to watch us. my fear is not contingent 
on whether or not a bird is natural.
if i'm honest though there is
a sliver of desire. i want to see
my life in minitature. i want to sell
all my clothes & wear a lovely uniform
given to me by the bird president.
who can i go to for permission
not to think at all today?
i am least worried about ducks
because i have seen their wood hearts.
watched as my mother carved them 
by the side of a mucky river.
song birds on the other hand.
they have a library of voices.
once a blue jay opened his mouth
to tell me i didn't love him
in the voice of my abuser. i covered my ears
& hurried briskly into a bathroom.
bathrooms are of course
the only place i am safe.
that's where the hat man 
keeps his wisdom. where the mirror
is also a watering hole.
elephants come. i dip my face.
drink as deep as i can. make promises
to myself that i will not & cannot keep.
"you will nail your feet to the dirt"
"you will not cover your head
as you run into the ivy" " you will
stop collecting feathers as evidence." 

footnotes

if i forget to tuck my feet
underneath the covers
in the morning the toads come
to mark me with their marginalia.
they right "we should go back
to the water." i lurk about each day
as if i'm not a conduit
for prophecies. i shave my head 
& watch the follicles fall
like stickmen. today i am also 
a stickman & i put my shoes on
to conceal the words of 
passing angels. i attract graffiti
&, along with it, all the angst 
of the world. sometimes i wake up
with a jar of eels sitting 
on a shelf in my chest. 
i lay still so i don't make fight.
there is also a beta fish beautiful
in my brain. i feed her gold flakes.
did you know there are fish 
in fish flakes? then again
we are all a little cannibal, right?
once i put my youngest brother 
in the oven & told him it was 
a play pen. don't worry. i took him out.
i take a shovel & go to 
where the words live like worms.
dig & dig. this place is my feet.
i am digging in my own walking
looking for a word that might mean 
"apology" but tastes like
a golden delicious apple. instead,
i find more amphibian writing.
"i am through with
my lungs" & "i just want to eat
a blue berry." our mouths are 
maybe our greatest limits.
i can't unhinge my jaw so instead 
i just have to hope when i tell you
what i need it isn't 
the size of a sofa. i wash my feet
twelve times because there is
no god & no apostoles
to do it for me. a flock 
of pigeons come to watch. i tell them
to save their stories for stone.
it lasts longer. they laugh
& happily eat as much crumbles 
as they can carry. every crumb
was once a stone. the lifetimes 
of atoms are like carousels.
i'm headed back to the deep.
a frog in need of water 
tells me, "i am through."
i wet my fingers 
& carry him to the lake.
he breathes & does not thank me.
i wasn't expecting him to. 
looking down i see the note he left
on my feet. it reads,
"it is time to stop." 
i close my eyes & pretend
i myself am just an alphabet
until the sun inverts 
into the moon. a quiet sliver.
my feather-cluttered night.
the world is cool. 
the beta fish thinks he's royalty.

pokemon card bible

i did not know how
to play the pokemon card game 
& i wouldn't have had anyone to battle with 
if i did. instead, we kept them in binders 
in the attic. dust on the shelves.
my pilgrimages up 
soft green carpet stairs.
i would sit & lay the cards out in rows
pretending we were standing
in a desert together.
then, later, inside a flea market 
& i would go talk to the bin 
of card board monsters. i didn't have
many friends. the ones i did 
had hair ties & knew how
to wear perfume already. i always felt like
i was in a play where everyone else had the script 
but me. i wanted to be told to run away 
like the characters in pokemon.
cracks formed in the asphalt 
& from them grew all my favorite weeds:
dandelions & ragged hands.
i asked myself if i
could be trained. 
as a ten year old
i was prone to fire-types.
whatever could set our dead dry lawn a blaze.
but i didn't want my pokemon to evolve.
preferred charmander to charizard.
i wanted to monsters small 
& managable. 
counting my cards at night.
savoring holographic edges 
& shimmering frames. i was convinced
i could stare long enough
to coax the creatures 
from their world into ours.
could wake up the next morning
& pack a bag & walk into 
a sherbert horizon. butterflies
drank greedily from our windows.
i was not a pokemon trainer
but i did have the cards
to return to. opening the binders
& deciding which i wanted 
to pull free from their 
plastic sheaths.

fishing line basinet

i remember being a trout.
how my mother wrapped me 
in newspaper. headlines screaming
"today is the last day."
once, inside my planetary egg,
i was just a diarama. miniature 
chairs & tables. bones the size
of ice skating rinks. children laughed
inside my walls. a tiny house 
is built on the outskirts of town
underneath the waters of the susquehanna.
fish gather. my family gathers.
fresh eggs blink. there is a moment
where an eye ball can hatch into 
a child. i cradled on all fours
to the surface. feathers in my throat.
writhing. the fisherman knitting cradles
for fish. the box of hooks.
he tests them on his own lip
& then does not know how to take them out.
i always wanted to be babied.
fed water as if i were truly
a gilled little girl. i had 
so much trouble training my lungs.
now they still fill with moths
if i'm not careful. wearing a door
as a necklace. the fisherman is not
my father or my mother. he is a neighbor man
with hands the size of hamburgers.
i tell myself i love him 
in order to make it to water again.
standing over me he becomes
tall & thin as a matchstick. 
the word "guardian" wavering until
it is just a tin roof. what i am trying to say
is i was hoisted from the water 
& asked to thank the hands that caught me. 
knuckles & gardens of fish tails.
a nursery with a resident box of lures.
i could never just lay in the field
because a red mouth was always
dangling just out of reach. 
come join me in my translucent cradle.
i am here to catch someone else.
wrap them in newsprint & tell them
exactly who i am.