i want to unravel completely

with & without blood.
peeling the red skin from an apple.
hunks of heel off potato faces. 
where a ball of yarn 
spills its guts. i am confessing
i no longer want to be continous.
give me every punctuation.
i'll plant my fingers & wait
for them to grow into bonsai. my tongue
in a terrarium. what kind of
adhesive have you used to 
barricade the doors of your self?
i take my father's guilt 
& his father's guilt & slam 
everything shut. a glass full
of gasoline. wooden afternoons.
splinters from running my hand
across my own arms. tell me i can
do nothing from now until
the sun puts the pot to boil.
i'm jealous of dead birds 
& children with fenced in yards.
tracing my chest scars with a finger
i think, "i would plant a row of trees here."
but i refuse any kind of growth.
i'm always doing that. claiming
to be reborn before the funeral.
right now, i just want to see the machine
vivisected. little heart 
like a strawberry. i want to go rotten.
want to bloom white lacy mold
from the palms of my hands.
let me be finally useless. 
using a walking stick carved 
from my grandmother's leg. 
how i come from a family 
of gravediggers by which i mean
we dig our own. work until
the day is liquid. holding 
a drinking glass to catch what's left.
i don't know if i can though. i don't
know how to dismantle.
i think of uprooting weeds
& i'm not sure if i'm the weeds
or the roots or the breath 
legs make when freed of dirt. 
i'm sending my fruits off 
to become planets. i'm drying out
in the sun. i'm holding seeds 
in my hands.

dinner guest

i'm inviting you into my plate
which also means inviting you to sit
on a ledge. ladle for a heart,
i am prone to giving more and more
until there is nothing but
ice to eat. ice is delicous at least.
we have a grandmother clock. we have 
a back door no one knows about
but me. cleaning the microwave again
on a tuesday night & thinking 
there would be less uses for my hands
if i were a shoe box person. 
instead, i am the drawer of knives.
don't be scared though, first and foremost 
a knife is a tool of service.
let me cut up a melon for you.
it's almost ripe but good enough for me.
a palette is a mouth 
& a homeland for casual cathedral ceilings.
you are hugging yourself & standing 
outside. i hear you take out
your napkin & place it on your lap.
i have a peep hole from which i can sadly only 
glimpse the universe 
& not actually the outside.
is the universe outdoors
or indoors? we have no wine glasses.
so, i'm sorry i lied. have you 
ate with your hands this month? i do 
when i'm alone but now you're here
so i'm too embarassed. when i can
i have a sense of boundlessness.
your knuckles are made of laugh lines.
i have nothing planned to eat
but in the cupboard we hoard 
pasta & cans of little vegetables.
when i said, "i'm inviting you"
i meant i feel like if i eat alone
another night i'll be one day closer
to becoming a fork. tell me 
about your own tables. did your mother
like to cook? when you see a wooden spoon
what song does your body remember?
mine speaks in falling blue jays.
their bodies like shards of sky.
i think of the clouded front window.
a burnt piece of toast
split in half. one for me
& one for you. come again, i say 
with the door open. you have left
so long ago. all the plates ring 
like bells. i eat a clementine 
with my hands & pretend
i am prying open a knot 
of all my wanting. 

running with scissors

i'm not tempting disaster 
i am sleeping its nest.
last night a monster came
& died in the middle of the street.
all the cars put on their high beams
to drive around the body.
at least i trust my ability to fall.
my father used to help me practice.
we would go in the yard & 
he'd push my chest hard & fast
so that i'd tumble over.
learn to curve your body
like a question mark 
& you'll never break.
i would just just rocking horse 
to the dirt. chose my favorite knife 
& steal it from the kitchen. 
sometimes i am meat & sometimes
i am pear guts. running towards
no one at all. a bridge with 
outstretched arms. everything
to be done with the tool.
carving faces in the oldest trees.
i will cut snow flakes & hang them
from the ceiling of my paper life.
chasing after a shadow 
slipped lose from its body.
i am not the good samaritan.
there is little room for stopping
if i am going to deliver myself
to the mouth i'm aiming for.
a stop sign faints & no one 
replaces it. monster's body 
becomes bones. headlights make 
cathedral shadow shapes until
a whole year has past & it's mostly dust.
we don't talk about those kinds
of demise. public & unspoken.
i cut a lock of a lover's hair
with my scissors while they sleep.
they don't notice or don't mention it.
i pocket it until spring.
when the dirt is warm again
i press the strands into the dirt
& run far away, the scissors
still in hand. 

hostile architecture 

we built a city on bed of needles
& called it home to anyone.
where "anyone" means anyone.
the weeds named themselves after planets 
before turning hay-pale & gone.
comforts in the form of trash cans
& stacks of tires that say "free."
i don't want to be that kind of free.
here, a sip of water is a staircase of glass.
where does a boquet of hands belong?
knocking on your door to ask
if we can take a walk 
becuase it is just so nice outside.
we reach for holly leaves at the park. 
chew the green from our tongues.
fires beneath eyelids & 
a shopping cart full of rain.
all i want is a basket to carry you in.
the city hoards sleep in garbage bags.
sirens spill like bruised peaches
& rot underneath the bridge.
each emergency has less & less
to do with my feet. instead, 
i follow the ice cream truck down
to the other side of park 
where boys take turns 
scooping out pieces of moon 
to chew on. buy myself a street light.
standing beneath & saying,
"this is my shadow & this one & this one."
you can have control over where you keep
& what you call "treasure."
the house is for sale to anyone.
a stray cat is hit by a car
& her ghost walks upside down 
on the eaves of every school building.
at night, even the benches have teeth. 

color swatches for haunted bedrooms 

i slept red until the house
burned down & i had no more 
childhood bones inside me.
took a paint brush to my corner 
of sky & left it pink.
i'm holding a flower up to the wall
& saying, "if only we could bloom
like this." a ceiling fan spitting dust.
in the aftermath of my tongue,
i spat violet day in & day out.
locked the door & was told 
that love is an unlocked room.
knocking. knuckles. the boy
who hid beneath the bed 
& sang his own lullabies.
i let my brother stand in the corner.
i said, "don't look." red grew
like weeds across every inch.
loud & rusted & ready. 
i blind-folded myself to choose 
my body from a line-up.
blue or orange or cream. 
i could see every single smudge.
jungles waited in my hands.
how i taught myself to sleep 
in the chorus of demons. their
maroon fingers writing birthdays
in the dark. i called for my parents
& everyone came. the room was not
red to them. not even a little bit.
cupped my like a lemon seed.
sat me on a windowsill & said,
"don't jump, just look."
the sky hugged herself blue.
i mimicked her, doing the same.
it was enough to survive. 

cork forest

where do you go to find a stop?
i used to walk down a spiral stair
into the bottled world.
everything was blue glass 
& bound. a wine cellar is born
out of the gossip of skulls.
i discover one in the basement
of my apartment. walls & walls
where coiled inside purple 
laughs to death. i have searched
for more ways to live internally.
bought curtains for my eyes
& a key i long swallowed.
watch as the men make thumbs
of trees. breaking free their dresses.
i too was once a raw material. 
took my shoes off to pick
wild from a snaking vine. 
the lesion is more than just 
a street or a number of months.
it streches wide as i know you.
there is enough befores 
to fill me. disrobing for
the axe. a pile of ankles.
what could it mean to live 
as the barrier? to make the barrier?
the trees tell stories 
of what happens after the fourth year.
how instead a fruit can turn
into a bird's egg & then back
into a fruit. for me,
i am looking for more items
i could choke on. bolder & billard.
screaming into a plastic bag 
& letting it go 
as if it were a lantern. 
 

talent show for malfunctioning species 

we all watch the fireflies
swell into lightbulbs. a round
of applause for everyone who 
can't sleep tonight. my brother & i
take our opera glasses & watch
as the birds outside try make 
a phone call on a stolen cell phone.
at some point in our lives
we are all thieves. better now
than later. i have been using 
my tongue wrong this whole time. 
learning to cartwheel,
i watched trash cans in the wind.
there is something otherwordly 
in everything but especially our trash.
the theater is empty-seated 
& no one has eye lashes enough
to survive the next few silences.
all i want is to be magnificent.
is that too much to ask?
a knot of snakes are trying 
to write their names.
in the attic i'm still making
a pair of wings i can use
to escape whatever catastrophe
asks for my teeth. no one is clapping.
the spotlight makes a circus
of shadows. we all faint 
like paper dolls. of course i want
people to see me. i want people
to keep me in their pocket & say
"would you look what i got!" 
there's no such thing as 
a ticket booth. at least not for miles.
i take my shoes off to have jumping spider.
at the end of the sunset's stomach
there is another stage of only
trap doors. i stand over one
& wait impatiently. all i want to do
is plummet out of sight.
in the lush underground maybe 
there are legs enough for all of us.
someone takes a flash photo
so i cover my eyes. the flash 
perminantly paints my shadow
on a brick wall. i would like
to be brief. lemmings don't actually
jump to their death, you know?
they just... well yes i guess they
actually do that but it's not so bad
if you pretend they're just 
the strings of a great string instrument.
each plucked open for an apple's worth
of sound. i take a bow & 
wish i was some kind of heron
or at least an animal 
with less digital components. 
 

oyster mushrooms 

i wore a dress of oyster mushrooms
when i stood on your tongue 
like a bride. you said,
"they taste just like meat."
i roll my eyes. that is something
only a carnivore would say.
all the mushrooms danced & tried
to speak for the first time. 
the mushrooms for centuries 
have had a language that lives
only underneath their tongues.
aloud it sounded like water lapping
against a river rock. like beads
falling from a roof & onto the street.
i wished i know less of my own langauge.
how it had come from your mouth
like dog food & saw dust. i had
lived inside what words like 
"want" & "forever." 
i wasn't dressed for the occasion
as none of us are when we are 
told to be beautiful. your mouth
was damp & ravenous. i had promised
i would go as deep as i could. 
everything smelled like
crush dinosaur bones. 
a mouth can be anywhere you go
to confess. the mushrooms voices
echoing. i was my dress then 
the dress was me. i told you i loved you
in the language of mycorrhiza
but it was not nearly enough. 
i wanted to show you all the ways 
my body can speak.
talking with me in your mouth.
are we always to nest
inside our lovers imaginations?
here is where the mushrooms
give me wings.
you wanted a bowl of my hair
& to scour my body for spores.
i held a bouquet of mushrooms.
the mushrooms said in their voice
heavy with pebbles
"she wants to be a root."
he laughed & said,
"don't we all."

connect the dots

in the night everyone wore
their horse faces. i was trying
to figure out where my phone went
or who stole it. a box theif
trotted buy. a fox planted
dots all over the town.
when was the last time 
you followed numerical order?
i am no longer the first born.
now i am just an orion.
taking a quill pen & drawing 
bridges between every breath.
how did i use to know myself
so clearly. i would draw
my own outline each day starting
at shoulder & ending at ankle.
these days a point is here
& gone in a flash. i find
a speckle labled 23 but cannot find
all the others. the image 
could be anything. helicopters fly
with the sole purpose 
of finding out. i am not concerned.
we are either still alive tomorrow
or we are not. i make my own
on my bedroom wall. you are still
working. i should be sleeping.
instead though, i make a horse
from dots. i'm going to make
someone try to thread them.
there are days where everyone i meet
looks like this. a collage of 
unthreaded nexuses. i scoop a handful 
from them. pocket those points
to one day make a new self
i can where when the night
is this orange. i store them
beneath the moon where 
not even the crowns know to look. 

cut on the dotted line

i take the mighty scissors 
all the way across town
to where the instructions are perched
& preening. lately 
everything has been asking
to be severed. my friends grow
dotted lines criss-crossing
all over their skin. 
the lines used to make sense.
one for solace. another
for crafting a mask from wood.
now, everything has a splitting wish.
the instructions drop black feathers
all over town. i follow them
to the edge of the forest
where no lines will reach
dotted or otherwise. i always wanted
to become un-outlined. 
my colors smudging. 
leaving mess wherever i'd go.
instead i was given boundaries.
spiders webs have been skipping.
eyeliner lines too. give me
a sign we are not just
in between leaps. the chasms 
that ask to take the world whole.
the instructions laugh. do not know
what they are asking. i snip out
patches of dirt. a laundry mat
cracks open like an altar.
no one told me i was in the other half
but then all the clocks 
filled smiling melon. i'll take
the six hours i can get. 
my scissors chirp 
pretending to be a song bird.
bite down on soil & asphalt.
i look at my hands. dotted lines
in spirals on my palms.
try to wash them in the parting water
of the blue stream that 
someone else has already cut
a few miles up. "i just wanted to know
how i was supposed to survive,"
i tell the instructions who calls 
before vanishing again
between my breaths.