monster elegy 

all the doors in our house 
cracked open like eggs.
mice from the fields 
arrived to the basement
with handfuls of salt. 
what do you gift a monster
as it becomes nothing more
than shadow? their deaths
are not like ours. or, maybe,
i presume too much about souls.
the monster used to wake me up
by dropping bells on my chest.
making my phone ring 
over & over. would write
"emergency" on the fogged glas
of the bathroom mirrors. 
i learned to shower with
the curtain open. a monster
is eager to be a metaphor
but i wouldn't allow mine.
my illnesses were balls
of yarn & barbed candles.
the monster was the monster
& nothing more. i never saw him 
but then again neither did anyone else.
my secret is 
i was feeding him. brought turkey bones
& canned peas & notebook pages.
he swallowed them all.
reached claws under
every doorway in an attempt
to graze my ankles. the monster
loved me like pollen loves bee legs.
who else here was going
to feed his fear organs?
& then i loved him.
he kept me searching every corner.
kept me alive with worry. 
gave the windows reason to wilt.
once, i could swear he held me 
in the dark of night.
outside it was snowing 
in clumps of nowhere.
i blinked. felt his arms.
became a stone & went back to sleep.
now he is gone. crows come 
to the porch, each leaving
one ear of corn. stray cats form a circle
& walk fifty-two times around the house
until his spirit is snuffed out.
the basement won't hold a single shadow now.
the monster is gone. the mice 
take his bones with him
& leave me with only 
a single jagged tooth.

ideation 

on the night the sea urchins came
i was feeling like a helmet of mice.
there were potential ladders 
all over my body & the rain came 
through the walls like fingers through sand.
they crowded the windows & the door--
purple & prickled & smelling 
of the fresh sea. no one knows my terrors
like i do. there is a pocket knife
who floats in the closet. i once tried
to throw my heart off a roof but
it returned, like everything does
as a sea urchin. there was nothing to do 
but to tend them. i filled the tub
with salt water & let them all congregate.
they sang with voices made of thread.
hymns from beneath the waves. 
i moved them around to make room.
laid down with them & imagined my body
equally round & sharp. they promised
not to be a burden which is
what all parts of my body have promised
& lied to me about. the ocean 
drifted in & out of sleep. 
called me a "daughter" instead of
a "son" & i told her it no longer mattered.
i was going to be made of ice soon anyway.
how do you teach yourself 
to want your legs? i ask the urchins
who convene & agree wanting 
is a process, not a bolt of lightning. 
still, i want to be struck 
so loudly i singe. gleeful & burning.
a fire current. a future palm's worth 
of ash. the urchins tucked me into bed
before departing. i asked when they
could come back but they were
already gone--their ears like buoys.
a wave swallows me & i wake up 
in the bathtub of salt water
sobbing like a glass bottle.

silo

for winter, i stored my sadness 
along with the animal feed. 
brought it kernel by kernel
to the silo which grew,
pill-like, in the yard.
the animals by now were all ghosts.
cows laying on their sides 
beneath the willow tree 
like children hiding under
a mother's skirt. they told me
i should prepare for snow
but instead i savored each 
knuckle-worth of distress that budded in me.
sorrow can become a hobby
if you are living on the right street
& there aren't enough headlights
to harvest. living alone,
i ate only dragonflies & centipedes.
opened my mouth & closed my eyes.
thought of saint john the baptist 
devouring crickets in his loneliness.
i would never go hungry, i told myself.
stared up at the silo 
as it became more & more obelisk.
the animals took their skeletons
underground by november 
& it was just me. walking at night,
i counted sidewalk squares
& talked to fallen leaves.
you can use your melancholy 
as a fire or a hearth. the difference is
a fire asks for more & more of you.
i made a fire in every room.
the silo wept. full of weighty future.
tongue turning over like a flag poll.
filled to the brim. 
you can stuff every corner with grain 
& still feel a hole where the winter
with pull you. the silo 
sang to herself or maybe to me.
it was only october, i told myself.
but the animals were dirt dwelling
& it was just me & 
each & every kernel. 

my new york city boyfriend

has a metro pass but teaches me
how to jump the turnstyles.
makes me feel like a backpack
slung over his one shoulder.
there are skyscrapers in his closet
& he tells me we can take it slow.
in his mind, "slow" means
we will get married by midnight
& in the cool morning we will be
nothing but a noted subway stop.
car horns live in his eyes.
he holds my hand & walks 
like a metronome. wind tunnel buildings.
pigeons roosting on his shoulders.
he feeds stray poets & birds.
plants a tree in his living room 
to "reconnect with nature."
on a street corner he confesses
"there is a bookshop in your teeth."
i turn a new page. on the train
we do not sit side by side but rather
across from each other. he says
he's sketching a museum of me
in his head. i have always wanted
to appear how i do with him, as if my life
is both effortless & haphazard.
the grime of the subway station
asks too many questions like
"what does it mean to be temporary?"
& "how long should you pause?"
he gives me a stoplight necklace.
red red red. i struggle with the desire
to stand still in every rush of legs.
in the village, we are truly lovers.
i kiss him like catastrophe
& he drinks an espresso 
in one gulp. walks ahead of me.
looses a wallet & says
"oh well." the moon doesn't arrive
like my lunar phases app
said it should. he says,
"don't worry i'm the moon now."
neither of us glow. his windows
have no blinds so we become
moving portraits for whatever finds us.
as i knew it would, morning comes
& his apartment is another apartment.
mine is a box on the street corner.
i have learned so well how to be 
ready to go. find a skyscraper 
in my pocket. this is how i know
he still thinks of me.

cornfield graveyard

i want to be weathered 
like crooked familial teeth. 
crops stretching their arms. 
roots weaving with bone. 
we park on the side of spilled road.
winding turn after winding turn.
a school house with empty-eye windows
& a limestone kiln's keyhole 
in the knee of the mountain.
we count the grave stones to twenty.
some lean on each other's shoulders.
others are the size of shoes.
weeds laugh between--dandelions 
& ragged prickled hands. soon autumn 
will take all the field has made.
soy beans & wheat & corn. 
this corn is feed corn, meant
for the cows who, a hill away,
lay down beneath an ancient tree.
like me & you, they discuss 
the fate of their milk & bones. 
if i had to be buried, i would prefer
to think of my stone old & smoothed as these. 
a single bowded planet. 
breeze makes waves across sweet stalks. 
we get back in the car. 
i drive & find walls everywhere.
the stacked stone walls 
of the small family graveyards that dot 
these pennsylvania hills
in my hometown. i tell you,
"let's make our own"
as if the dead could build
their own playgrounds as if 
as ghosts who might run our fingers
across headstones
to make them featureless.

in the absence of queen bees 

we bejeweled our eyes & worshipped them. 
attic dust floating across 
afternoon light. i was just 
a honey worker. bringing whatever 
sweet language i could find. 
gold in my teeth. promises to breathern.
"we will get through this." my optimism
like a flute in the dark. listening
to my brothers as they arrived as 
dead batteries. as the comb turned
grey with worry & age. my own machine-wings
becoming stained glass windows 
through which little people came
to peer through. everyone is a church.
has the possibility to contain worship.
this can be terrible or it can be
a joy. my congregation did not remember
how to sing. the other bugs 
came to watch us. we tried to crown
a cicada but she could not learn
to bask in honey. ants came
as they always to do a carcass.
i could no longer even remember
the queen's face, only that it glinted
like a belt buckle as she closed her eyes
& spoke with god to request 
every single one of us. in my desperation
i shook a sibling awake. i said
"i could do it. i could be queen."
he laughed sadly & told me 
what i already knew. it was too late
for queens. we were orphaned 
in the shell of our home. 
he said, "would you like 
to go drink night flowers with me?"
i said, "of course."
so we did. in the glow of the moon
we drink lillies. let pollen cling
to our thighs. huddled 
in the great shadow. hip to hip.
we saw the hive from a distance.
little cathedral crumpling in.
the leaves yellowing in the oak tree
where we used to flock. 

long story

"it is a long story"
i said as a catapult sang 
herself toward ambrosia.
the war was luckily all wooden 
this time & so we put in headphones 
& ambled away to the basement. 
we he been sitting in front 
of the portal & talking 
nonsense when you asked me
where i stole my eyes from.
you replied, "please tell me,
i need to know. i don't care
how long a story." we both
had lion's tails we bartered for.
i lay mine across my lap 
& contemplated your attention span.
outside, birds were huddling
in fear. a grey cloud fathered
the fields, meaning he pummled them.
i agreed & began. the story
had whimpers & muck.
the story pulled us through
croquet arches. i talked so long
i passed the eyes & moved on
to the origins of my heart.
how at the dawn of time 
a mistress pluck it from
a fallen apricot tree. wrapped it
in plastic & shipped it off
to the future. there yours was too.
an orphaned plum. too ripe
for its own good. how do any of us
endure these durations. 
my story skipped like 
pinewheels in too much wind.
the portal asked, "why do you say
so much?" the story crumbled
& released us. i glared 
at the portal. who asked you,
i thought. portal are always
trying to coax you away from your bliss.
i took out an ear bud. war still
knocking around. you said,
"could i tell you a long story?"
i said, "only if you tell it
twice. once longer than the first."
the windows scabbed over.
in the dark, your voice
was the only moon. both my eyes
trembling like wet river rocks.

famine

in the morning all milk turned to air.
pale white smudges where god
pried his fingers away
from the glass earth.
i used to sit at the kitchen table 
as a round little human 
swallowing roaming calcium.
the cows grew horns. bulls bleed milk
from their mouths. i asked 
my gender what kind of nutrients
it would provide us for these times.
raining lemonade. afterward 
the street smelling of constriction.
we used to drink the cream
from the lid. used to soak out feet
in white. took spoons from 
an angel's plate to eat
vanilla ice cream in front 
of a glowing television. the bees
search for words. i cut a hole 
in the ceiling & wait to be flooded
with grief. mothers turning into elm trees.
my sock puppet lover saying
"your love is only you looking back."
a boat to prepare. a life jacket
in the hall closet in front of
grandmother's furs. the animals,
drinking nothing but maple syrup 
from the throats of trees. their bodies
thinning into twigs. in the end,
aren't we all the fire's bildungsroman?
i'm asking the stars 
what is left to quell monsters.
the stars are packing their bags
& covering their faces
with their hands. 

mountain gardening

i shed a bone last night
& carried it into the woods.
it was not yet white--
still sinewed & greyish.
if i'm being honest, at first,
i tried to put it back.
unsure of where it fit,
i pleaded with the fragment.
asked to stay whole
which is, i am well aware,
a futile effort. but a bone
is a great opportunity 
for a mountain garden.
so, i carried it into 
crowds trees. orange & red leaves
making a damp fire all around me.
a mountain garden is the deepest
kind of planting. digging 
with bare hands into the earth
of the mountain. asking to hide
a secret between her shoulder blades
just to watch it grow.
once, i buried a ring like this.
the ring had a string to 
an old lover. the lover now travel
to the mountain, following
the rings blossoming impulse.
i asked the bone to become
a well or at least a new ridge.
covered it with moss & gravel.
listened as the trees sighed
in gratitude. there is no better way
to dismantle one's self
but to make a garden. i am planning
what each shard will become.
i want to instigate a stream.
cultivate new ruined houses.
rubble for dusk light 
to play in. the bone trembled
in the dirt. i still feel it
from where i lay in bed alone.
above me, a neighbor moves his dresser
back & forth as if she is a wife.
across the street a woman smokes 
endlessly on her porch. 
she's missing four teeth. 
i hope she has a mountain garden too. 

night racing

i listen as they trample 
with dinner knives through 
a field of antique stars.
their headlights, hungry 
dueling brothers. humans 
are always in need of a race.
who will defeat all distances?
the road, a dark ribbon
around the neck of ghost.
i want to know how far they go
& how they choose which streets
to tear into. if they rush
with their windows open
or down. does the music they play
invent catacombs in their skulls
or do they sing to forget bone entirely?
memento mori is what engines say. 
gripping the gear shift:
the wooden spoon their mothers use
to stir a metal-belly. dinner
was or is autumnal. 
everything now orange.
passing children as they
pick the season's last strange
wild flowers: pink & lilac faces.
from the racers' windows, a pasteling occurs.
every corner houses their mothers. every porch,
their father's cigarette smoke. how & when
do they decide to slow? when they leave
their machines are they rid 
of some urge or are they 
even more haunted?
do they always want more?