on the lake of dropped calls

we decide to build a raft out of an ear.
you say, "we can use yours."
cut it off slowly 
with a paring knife. 
all the words i wanted to say 
spill out the side of my skull. 
drifting leaf-like across the water.
you dare me to go over board.
i have already gone farther
than i want to. isn't that 
what we're told love is about?
finding a threshold in someone else
& seeing if it will give.
dipping two fingers in the surface
everything rings--not like bells
but like sirens. like a full plate
falling & the owner eating its contents
from the dining room floor.
i am starving & haven't eaten
for seven years. you tell me
there is a shake shack on the other side
of the lake & so we paddle
with our hands. pushing the ear
& ringing. thrum that travels
from wrist to elbow. windchimed children.
dream of devouring anything.
planks of wood. handfuls of seaweed.
the stones at the bottom of the lake.
i think, surely there must be something
to put in my mouth. again you suggest
the water as if there were
ever an option as to whether or not
i would drown. the water comes
like sky--endless & enduring.
the voices of pleasure & pleas.
a "hello?" chorus. where have you gone
oh where have you gone. tell me
this is not over. call me again.
press the phone to your ear 
& eat me. i make it to shore &
you are there before me smiling
& chewing. you ask what i heard down there.
i cannot bring myself to tell you
so i say, "nothing but your voice." 

radiator love poem

i used to try to see how long i could last
without turning the heat back on.
the pipes in our building are 
full of eels. you said, 
"i want to feel my bones again."
i crouch in front of the dead horse
& ask for a fire. contemplate
how & what i will try to steal
from the gods. the world is turning 
to ice age in front of my eyes.
i use a blow dryer to unthaw 
the rose bushes outside. dry petals 
fall to the earth. i watched you
smoke on your little metal balcony,
the plumes from our mouth 
like foot soliders. who & what
is coming for you? a bagel we split
before i decided to live inside
a conch shell. the life of 
mulberries bursting. i don't want
to be a candle. i want to be
oil which is to say i want to be
the ancient shoulders. give me
dinosaur tear ducts.
give me a fireplace i can lay down in.
cradle the log. but the radiator speaks
of beautiful sunsets & raisin cookies.
spiral galaxy. snakes, when close to dying
of the cold, will coil around each other
into a wonderous knot of skin
& skin & skin. this is how 
our building will one day fall.
in a tethering of bodies. the basement
is full of roots that lead 
to a ghost tree. turning the heat back on
i feel like i am becoming a moth.
i search for a thumb's worth of light
to tell my every secret to. 
the sun kneels down. the radiator gallops. 

edible sea shells

i used to live inside 
plastic gloves. hermit crabs 
crawled along the sidewalk
carrying wedding rings.
the ocean was always coming closer
brimming with messages in bottles.
i always worried if i opened one
it would tell me something
i didn't want to know.
once, a friend opened one
to find a letter from her mother
where she confessed to setting
the dog house on fire. 
there aren't enough confessionals
for this life. one on every corner
but instead of priests we could have
each other. i want to find a stranger
to tell about the taste of sea shells.
always like butter & sugar.
crouching in the waves
my brother & i swallowed 
as many as we could. heard them clap
in our stomaches like castanets.
we had been so hungry. so willing
to try anything. i don't want
to scare you but even now 
when i see an ocean all i can think of
is "feast." is it true 
you shouldn't shower in a lighting storm?
because i am not afraid.
i turn the water on to find
tiny sea shells spilling
from the shower head. she sells
sea shells by the sea are you sure?
there is a dollar bill 
i keep folded in a triangle 
in my pocket. soon the electricity
will turn on us. form its own 
civilization. darkness as tangible 
as icing. licking my fingers.
do you know what it means 
to scrape like this? the bottom
of every day for the last petals.
here, let me teach you 
how to be a decorative bowl.
not for eating or for serving
but for looking into. i have a collection
of sea shells & they are ready
for us to carry back to the water
which is also a mouth. which is also
what she is selling which is also
so sore it reddens. 
i will promise you one thing--
this not crack your teeth. this will end
in calcite. running our fingers
over the shell's ribs.
running our fingers over
each other's ribs. you will
have to believe me. 

skin care routine

sometimes hives break out 
along the back of my neck
like a garden path
to disappearance. i want into 
a room of potted mirrors.
watering the self & saying,
"you are worthy of softness."
lotion made from retired clouds.
a lightning bolt who 
wears high heels & speaks only
in similes. "your body 
is like a daguerreotype."
sitting still, i wait to 
return to my limbs. a gasoline serum 
in a dropper. just a little fire
to each cheek. evening out
the skin tone. i lay down
& wait to be raked into a pile
with the other leaves. 
something is always falling.
boys are always touching
their skin. he ties my hands
behind my back & i walk around
all day like a parcel.
where i am going there is
only knuckles. 
oil from weeping willows
rubbed into my scalp.
a bowl of dove's eggs mashed.
this is a mask of mud & worry.
lifting the grottos from 
my face. i want to keep 
every cave i have. i will need them.
the eyeless fish know 
what it means to wear a body.
i float on my back in a tub
of blood. i don't know whose blood
but isn't that how we live right now?
whose blood am i in?
then rinsing. patt dry.
almost done. now just for
a walk alone in a house 
of dust. finger prints on every planet.
wrapping myself in parchment paper.
i am not sure how or if 
i can feel renewed again. 

carnival graveyard 

i go by myself 
into the blinking archways of bone. 
eat cotton candy from a skull.
the dead are not dead
just entertaining the living.
i woke up with tickets
in my mouth. taste of sugar
on my my my tongue.
music poured from every knee cap.
am i living? i put on
my funeral dress.
at the carnival off the highway 
everything tastes like metal.
i remember you asking
for a parasol & me saying,
"but it is raining" then, you saying,
"no--it's not." the earth coming
in onion orbits. the sun in your eyes.
i find rusted bolts in my pocket.
there are too many boyfriends to count
& they all want to win me
a giant stuffed bear. the bear
is stuffed with wads of hair.
the boyfriends are older than me.
they tell me i am always
wanting too much. my body is 
a place where balloon darts land.
the ferris wheel in the quarry.
a plane crashes & the scrap
is used for a rollercoaster.
holding on for dear
life. what i have done to hold on
for dear life. pulling hair out
one strand at a time.
the swing ride. kitchen implements 
i've used for digging.
beater. bowl. wooden spoon.
paper plates to sleep on.
the workers put their skeletons away
in clarinet cases. one more thing.
a machine for screaming.
i go inside. someone asks,
"who died?" i remember 
the funeral clothes & i take them off.
i answer, "i am just living prepared."
i want someone to teach me
how to celebrate. don't be brief.
don't come to town like the carnival does.
night after night, then 
frantically reburying itself.
tombstones where it was. 
come to me enduring. a set of kitchen knives.
a disco ball. hold me down 
while i try to run into traffic.
the cars running naked 
on the highway. fill my mouth 
with tickets that do not correspond 
to anything at all. 

scavenger hunt

find a ship without legs
& then ride it to the hole in your sock.
we were talking about 
driving eight hours to find the body.
your dorm room full of socks.
i refused to eat for days
in the hopes i would transform 
into a butterfly. i would like
a break from daylight. find a night
that lasts as long as you need it to.
drilling holes in both hands 
to feign stigmata. telling moths
they can fly through the openings.
find an envelop you never sent.
the post office covered in gold.
limited edition travels. the airplane 
we took to visit desire. eating ice cream
in front of dinosaurs. my uncle 
ran around with his hands on fire
& no one helped him put them out.
when i say i am searching i mean
i bought a shovel. i go outside
each darkness into the city streets
as if i'm going to find a whale graveyard.
squirrel skull. owl pellet
with a vole heart still beating inside.
what terrifies me most is
i'm not sure i'll recognize it
when i come upon what i'm looking for.
maybe a comet. find yourself
a celestial body. one to wear
when this one is done. find sleep.
find silverware. find a lover,
one who doesn't close their eyes.
who walks around like a search light.
i had that & we totaled the car 
& the ship didn't have any legs
so we had to paddle on dry land.
find an ocean. toss your skull
into the water. listen to the crabs
as they play fiddles for mermaids.
the letter arrives without a stamp.
a car pulls away. find a citrus fruit
to serve as the sun. hang it 
from the window. use crayons to 
outline his body against
the bedroom wall. find a way
to save each touch. his hair 
in an old jam jar. to keep is 
to never have to hunt for again.
i have so so so many basements full. 

get rich quick

"what can we do to be 
rich?" my mom asks
in our living room.
the ceiling is dime-covered.
in the bathroom,
mirrors crowd with ghosts.
all my father's shirts 
have mice-chewed holes.
we are a family of trap doors
or else we are being eaten. i find
thread-bare elbows. my hair fall out
in woven baskets. all the spoons
caving in. become binoculars.
i say, "let's go door to door"
only the thought is incomplete.
nothing to sell. we ring doorbells.
search our pockets for something
to offer. what we need
is a yard sale or a merchandise or
a new gadget that will
make breathing easier. a flashlight
full of fireflies. shoes that tell you
when danger is coming. when you
are about to catastrophe.
in our house, money is
a kind of angel. we say,
"do you have any money?" like
"do you have any grace?" "any holiness?" 
when i was small, i learned
to fish in purses. take only 
as much as wouldn't be noticed.
quarters. now each theft 
is a hole in the bathtub.
i plug them with my fingers.
for us, the world is always trying
to pour out. the point is
this has to happen quickly.
we don't have much longer until 
the urge to be voluminous passes
& we are just a ragged portrait again.
bugs in the carpet. dust 
on every windowsill. 
a man opens a rung doorbell 
& tells us to get a job. 
we say, "this is our job"
he turns into an empty wallet.
we pocket him in case we can
sell him later. no one
goes to bed rich. the day passes 
quicker than the one before
& the one before & the one before.
i get on dad's shoulders
to pluck a dime from the ceiling.
"just enough," he says 
even thought it's not. 
we eat pizza & consider
what we could make 
out of the box. an airplane maybe
or a cruise ship.

VR brother

in game mode, we talk about girls.
he says he is waiting for perfect legs
& a jar of tongues.
really, i stand in the living room
knocking over glass vases.
shattering. meanwhile, in VR
i am just trying to hug him.
the headset sings a song about distances.
since he converted to digital
we have almost nothing
to say. i tell him it is raining
& he changes the sky to be purple &
heavy with clouds. he says, "what rain?"
this is not dreaming. this is
emptying each room on the front lawn.
i'm thinking about how we used to
talk through the dark
of our shared bedroom 
as if night were a curtain.
him asking, "are you still awake?"
me pausing before whispering, "yes."
i ask him what he does all day 
& he transforms his hand into a blue jay. 
in VR, nothing is perminant
but especially not mistakes.
he runs away & returns. he chops down
a tree out of anger & instantly 
it grows back. he says,
"don't you wish the rest of the world
was so forgiving?" a part of me does.
a part of me wants to burn
my house down & turn around
to see it back. but, then,
there are the pieces of a wreck.
how, even if they are ash, 
they should be taken. held.
he shaves his head. he eats with his fingers.
tells me he is in love with
a patch of dandelions. they are a woman.
again, we are talking about girls.
always, we are talking about girls.
the specter of me having been one.
how she is downloadable now.
lives on a USB drive. wonder if 
she's met anyone. when i take off the headset
he doesn't say goodbye just
"what if you stayed?" i think about it
until the moon is the only eye left open.
i think of putting my life
under my tongue. walking around
with blue jays for hands. sitting beside
my girlhood & putting a piece
of caramel in her mouth. 

i buy stamps w/ ur face on them

going to mail a frenzy
& all the windows are tinted blue
to try to make me calm.
i want to know how to feel anger 
without letting it destroy me.
i rode a bicycle with no wheels
to ur house & waved my arms
until my shoulders throbbed.
my body is a shelter 
where my fury sits alone 
at a dining room table
& pretends to be at bliss
for the others. there are no others.
u were probably sleeping. u were
probably not thinking about
how ur face shows up everywhere for me.
in my knotted hair, ur nose.
my knees bear ur instructions.
come here come here. the mail person
asks me if i want any stamps 
& i say "could i see what you have?"
i have lived inside so many stamps.
cut my life into transience.
today i am thinking about
the train that used to know my feet.
used to say, i promise, long & wailing.
then, he is showing me 
booklets of mushroom cloud stamps
& crowbar stamps & suitecase stamps &
a fire escape stamp. i ask
anything else? & then there you are.
a dozen of ur face
replicated. perfect for sending
a feather to the tax collector.
yes, i bought them & now
ur house is on fire. the news
arrives now only in touch. 
i press my hand to the tremble
& hear not good. i wanted to buy 
hundreds of sheets. send ur face
to every doorstep. would that be revenge?
no, it is something extra.
but don't worry i didn't buy more
than just a sheet. u smile at me
& i tell u. now at least 
u will learn how to carry me.
ur face winks on the stamp. 

audiobook family

in the romper room
we kept all our ears on the shelves.
our tongues were out to pasture.
so, when i spoke, 
only yarn came out.
we repeat stories in my house
each time the details becoming
more like glass. my father promises
he was a soldier in the first world war.
tells me about gatling guns
& the trenches' spoiled dirt.
he crawls into headphones
just like me. i am a grub
or a worm. my brother lights 
the tree on fire & calls it a prophecy.
i try to put it out but just make it worse.
the story goes like this
"we are from
the time of antiques. a rusted telephone.
grinding eggs into dust." 
for hours we call for our tongues 
but they never come back.
i ask my mother, "tell me a story
without your lips." she closes her eyes
& i close mine. we share a little
dark kingdom where every mushroom 
is a telephone line to the underworld.
in the whole house there is
only one plug & we fight hungrily for it,
especially at night.
teeth like airplanes. 
clamoring to hear what the wall
has to say. gives us stories
about drowned girls & hitchhikers. 
when i get my turn 
my ears hum. i forget to worry
about my tongue or drawers full 
of spare teeth. i am just
a pocket knife being opened 
& opened. wooden dining room tables.
my father, digging a trench 
to sleep in. i go with him,
carrying my ears 
in my backpocket.