delivery

in the red wagon we carried the meteor 
to our closet. the wagon begged us
to report our finding to the police
but we told our old implement he was a snitch.
sewed the old door shut. made breakfast eggs
& talked about weather until weather stopped.
i wanted to make a crown from the rock
but the neighborhood boys wanted
to make bullets or slingshot-fodder.
isn't that always the way? boys think 
of domination only in terms of violence.
on the second day the meteor started
to spit out old heels scuffed & unless.
someof the boys put them on & told me
not to tell anyone. in the wagon, i pulled them
down to the hole in the earth where we found it.
corn dispersed by impact. i felt jealous.
i have anyways wanted to fall with that kind of force.
leave a mark in the dirt. i used to jump 
from the roof but a parachute always opened
out my skull. who put it there? self preservation
is a game of thinking ahead of your most
combustive self. i buy matches in bulk.
confess to the meteor that i'm not really sure
what the point is. what a kid is supposed to do
when they discover something like this.
i hoped for an invasion. extraterrstrials
knocking on my door but instead the meteor
just weeps & begs to be let go. 
i confess "i don't know how to let you go."
the wagon is furious all the while.
paces the driveway with squeaky wheels.
i ask for a truce & lay down inside.
"take me anywhere else," i say so the wagon does.
carries me up & down country roads 
until we reach the edge of the map 
where no one has made up anything worthwhile.
i ask, "here?" the wagon says, "here." 
looking up at the incomplete sky i hope
some kid on another planet finds an earth fragment
& has the same dilema. the worst feeling
is that you might be the only person 
to feel so strongly about an incident.
i don't cry even though i kind of want to.
finally, years later, i follow the faint
wagon wheel trails back home. metero gone
from the closet. neighbor boys
throwing shards back up to the dark sky.

petting zoo ducks

the petting zoo ducks are 
tearing pieces off the sun as if it were
another potato roll or window of white bread.
wearing their iridescent masks
they plunder the graveyard of flowers
& return to the pen before
any human can notice. they are nothing
like the goats or even the horse
all of which can convince themselves
of a two-finger touch. the ducks
refuse caress & in return demand
handful & worship. the ducks take turn
guessing what it once meant 
to be "wild." one duck thinks 
only falcons & eagles are truely 
unbound like that. another duck thinks
it's as simple as a barrier. 
anyone without a fence is wild
& those with one are contained.
the ducks recall being carried like 
loaves of bread. the ducks often
try to eat more than they know they should.
the ducks drink water in morsels
& ask summer to at least bring
cool dark nights. one duck tells
the same story every dusk. he says that once
there was a great pond thick with algae 
& brimming with everything delectable.
there were no other two-footed species
only ducks & there ducks flourished.
he is trying to get back to that pond
& on his worst days he tries to dig it himself
in the mud of the pen. the truth though is
he could fly out. he could escape.
play in the church cementery or
make a shadow on the sidewalk. 
the pen just feels a brutal necessity.
what if he were to walk too far
& lose all possible rein. no he would stay
& the other too. pluck feathers & stick them
in the mud. call it a forest. 
then, balancing the sun-taste
with a nibble of moon. just a taste.
smooth & cool. quenching. bringing sleep.
the ducks sleep with their eyes open 
as stars. dream of un-dangerous touch.
a reach. a grasp. the pond closing 
like a blinked eye. 

on the side of the highway flowers bloom like spotlights

& your face is as bright as any omen.
i cut holes in the wall to access the future
where we will be happily. take my hand 
like a steering wheel. hitch the horse
to the dumbwaiter. i have a ghost story for you 
about how each lover haunts the next & the next.
the world is a scheme of last weeks & 
in a few years but i love you now like
glass combat boots & ivy.  
roadkill shadows strech & shimmy 
up the block. A clumsy deer & 
an asterisked raccoon. i would like to
take your shadow & hold them hostage.
touch your shadow's smooth shoulders.
Feed your shadow spoonfuls of honey until
it gives into gold. you are the most beautiful human
for this moment. i am asking each tree i pass
to learn how to grow apples. temptation 
is not in the fruit-flesh but in the seed.
i was eve before i transitioned. i fed boys apples
& told them it was their fault. i shaved my head
in a lava flow & watched as each strand glowed.
now you are here & you are kissing me.
i am the leaf & the are the tree. if i kneel here,
what kind of worship do you prefer? sacrifice 
has many methods. we could even just 
watch as the leftover horses spill
into the creek. i have a campsite 
in my closet for whenever you're feeling
more tangible. cut a lock of hair.
those bright bright flowers with their 
nail files & their false teeth. they have
no right trying to eclipse you in glow.
i'm going to cut them down & vase them
in the kitchen. when i was dying 
my mother brought me a bouquet. i felt 
loved & special like i was in a concert. 
the roadkill thought i was
being dramatic. i was. i really was. 
enough of that though. here is the apple
& here is my little garden 
where i ask the dirt for asparagus 
& just recieve old wedding rings.
if you find one you like you can keep it.
just don't tell the shadows. 

oroboro

we put the onion rings on our fingers
in preparation for our favorite circle.
i said, "will you marry me?"
to the 1/2 mile track loop 
in my own chest. round & again.
take a new obit to the basement today.
my office building became 
a beach ball & had a much better 
rest of their existence. my neighbors too.
i noticed they used to have
such smart & deliberate angles.
now, given in to bubble & wave,
they don't do much but snort 
at passersby. it's hard not to be 
a tourist anymore. just yesterday 
i found the gift shop in my own kitchen
& bought a little baggie of smooth rocks.
there's not much to be done about
biting your own tail. it's there
& if you don't do it no one will.
then how will you remember your body?
self injury is a tactile guidebook.
i dog ear each page because they all
seem important. what i mean to say is
to keep going is to swallow 
your father's wedding band. i can press
on my sternum & feel it just beneath 
the surface. oh my little ring. 
my little "again." how am i going
to make it through a whole week 
without wearing your mouth?
i put a turnicate on the wound.
blood goes purple & violet. 
name a flower that doesn't grow
in a perfect circle. mushroom halos.
the ship's porthole (not to be mistaken
for portal). my extra set
of glass eyes are a richer deeper brown.
the brown of bear hearts & dead grass.
keep me in your thoughts
when you make a hard left. 
don't worry too much about 
distrupting the world order. 
i need a little more distruption.
lets float & stare down at glass milk bottles.
choose one to plummet inside.
hang out plumage out to dry.
spit the blood out in the compost pile
to ensure no round offspring. 
fruit swelling on the branches.
perfect circle plums. finger to their skin.
"calm down little seeds. relax." 

mcmansion 

by which i mean we lived 
inside a hot tub & worried about
the potential for pregnancy 
or patchy alternate realities.
put our hands over jet streams 
& downloaded our favorite music
right into our skulls. 
i didn't know what you were listening to.
everything was completrely private
behind lovely picket fences.
fences are expensive or was it
expansive. i love a nice division.
here is your arm & here is mine
& here is the polaroid we took 
to commemorate buying realestate 
on the moon. then the water gets warmer.
not global-warming heat but like
kissing-too-much heat. it's harder to breathe
each day. i want nothing to do with
tree planting. all my trees arrived 
like children. two-day shipping.
who needs dirt. washing my hands 
in the water. my leg becomes your leg
& i say, "hey give it back."
in the oven our premaid soccer game
is waiting like an enterprise.
i'd really love to float on my back
but looking directly up at the sky
makes it prone to glitching.
i can do without an existencial crisis 
for at least the next month.
don't have time i nthe schedule.
putting a reminder on my phone
to kiss you before
all the water evaporates 
& we have to ask the well 
what it thinks of our hair.
whose lawn is purring again? which car
is offering to drive any one in need
to the nearest cliff for irrevocable diving.
i'm trying to just take in the moment.
my therapist in the microwave says
i can't have it all so i shut the door
& tell her to calm calm down
it's not that serious. it's just a house.
i'm just a house. 

over

the children gather like
swans. necks loose & garden hose.
swing set at the edge of the park
where all the bicycle go 
to decay. one is telling others
"i can swing myself over the bar"
& everyone wants to see her do it.
the children is me. no just the girl
but also the boys with ill-fitting shirts
& another girl who watches
from the furtherest distance.
legs pumping like oil rigs.
up the street construction workers
break open the asphalt in a secret search
for gold. a parakeet whistles 
as brownies burn in the oven
of kitchen of the house next to the park.
the world is missing a beat. 
she kicks at the air. images 
knocking the faces off trees.
clouds reform to be less severe.
the children watch for hours
but become very bored. they wanted 
to see the over--the moment the swing
& the girl's body finally whip
around the tall bar. no luck no luck.
the girl powers the whole town
with her efforts. the world could run
on "over." i tell all my children
to find something else to occupy themselves
but the watching is contagious
& i find myself more & more staring.
handfuls of mulch. an abandoned lawn mower.
what we really need is not a lower swing
but a higher swing. the more impossible
the better. swing scraping
the moon. oh little girl self
i'm sorry to leave you there
trying to get over. i'm trying
to get over too. take me with you
on the way down only. children 
fall asleep standing up 
like horses. the moon up & leaves.
this is mostly all my fault.
eventually it happens. she wraps the swing
round the bar but no one is 
mentally present enough to notice. 
it's unfortunate. she probably won't
do it again. i tell my children parts
to go home & try to invent good parents
& leave the park alone for a few weeks
before things are settled & gone. 

numerology

balloons tied themselves 
to every single eye lash. i blinked
louder than jupiter & angerier 
than a shattered porch light.
laying on the sofa you counted
the hairs on my head & then
you asked me if i could see 
the angel-monsters sewing 
each second into place. i lied
& said i did. you were always
the mystic one with your 
ouija board fingers & your oracle
in the closet telling us
when we might die. you have a ritual
of only asking once a year
& you said to ask about your own death 
more than that was a sign of insanity.
did you know i went to question
every single night? each time
the throat gave me a new number.
month. day. year. i wrote them down
on scraps of toilet paper & notecards
& sometimes, on the backs of my hands.
how could it change so much? five years away
sixty years away. eight days away. 
i swam with numbers. laid down
in your whirling cast circles.
burned mugwort for peace. you held up
a tiny crystal ball & said
whenever you looked in it,
you only saw my face. i saw nothig
but blur. began to only trust numbers.
fixed & final. slept inside sevens
& made sure to kiss each day in even numbers.
hauling my body then to your oracle
& asking with trepedation
"do you know when i will die?"
you see i was not afraid of death
but worried i only had so much longer 
with you. yet, still, i wanted to be sure
to die first. i would not be lonely
with my numbers. did you truely 
never discover my habit? 
do you still have the oracle?
can i see it just once more.
i want a new number round
& etchable. i want to carve it.
mother it. hold it to its word. 

playland

the end times are for hamburgers
& brothers. we parked the car 
in lava & watched it melt like cheese.
brother the size of pea in our pockets.
he cried for french fries
so we ordered some without any salt.
took refuge in the molten plastic.
plumetted the red slide
& mashed in the ball pit like 
basketed tomatoes. 
there are no instructions 
for becoming an eldest brother.
you look at your hands & noticed
they are smaller than all your brothers
so you take them off & send them
to play with legos in purgatory.
enough ketchup to believe in blood again.
no wifi signal, just the mcdonalds clown
shouting news headlines at the top
of his lungs. what i wouldn't give
to be a mascot instead of boy-mother.
wash our hands in a slit cloud.
our shoes float off 
on a torrent of lime soda.
how were we supposed to keep
night from falling. then, curb-sitting
& counting loose stars.
is that your son? 
no that's my brother, he's
limited edition. take off
his detachable sadness & 
put it in the glove box.
we drive home through helpeless highways
still munching on this & that.
brother please stop crying, i hope
quietly to myself. guilt is 
the needle sewing each hair
into my head. a gust of wind
is a gentle repreieve. everything smells
like tatter-tots & processed patties.
feeding my brother from 
the palm of my hand. little animal.
i promise to guard him even if 
he only gets smaller. despite
the lateness of the moon
& despite the lack of honey mustard.
driving we pass playland 
after playland & he begs
to stop at each so i do. 
red slide. blue slide. tic tac toe. 
bare feet to sidewalk.
headlights spilling & ravenous.
we will be home soon
i promise him. he kisses 
my thumb. 
 

my burger king toy

was a tall man with a buttery nose
& sea horse eyes. 
didn't fit inside the reccomended plastic.
told him to lay down in the back seat
& cover his ears while i chew.
i try to avoid processed boys
but sometimes it's inevitable.
in dusk i always float like a pickle. 
blimping & goose flesh. nothing much to see.
it's better not to resist this kind of coupling.
on the way home, i got him a fine china plate 
he can carry around to feel important.
really, i wanted the wooden top.
wooden toys make me believe
we were once cut from trees or at least
that we were once more organic. 
trees faint when you tell them
just how much waste is happening 
right now. the consumer is always
thinking he-she knows what he-she wants.
when i am in a consuming mood
i watch youtube until the videos
mash together & no longer make any sense.
plastic is basically organic though
like tomatos or beets. used to be
dinosaur brains & now is smooth 
& blue. science is sometimes
nothing more than instructions 
for how to make the best soda lid.
my toy asks for chipped ice
but i only have cubes. he doens't appreciate
how many stop lights i had to endure
to meet him. the fries 
are cold as tombstone letters.
when we go to sleep i'll tie a balloon
to his wrist & tell him "get lost."
not like in a rude way but more like
a "not all who wander are lost" bumper sticker.
really, my preference is for 
men the size of pockets. i pat his head.
i fold the hashbrown in half 
like a bible to take a bite. 
tell him he tried his best.
nothing free is neccesary. well,
except maybe air. but even that 
might be up for debate. i once
held my breath for twenty-one years 
& nothing that bad happened to me. 

rapid onset gender 

the needle was a mother closet.
brushed my teeth with salt.
ate ice cream in the fire elevator.
knotting my heart like a pair of socks,
i don't take mondays for granted.
i pull them taffy-like from 
underneath a fresh lid. milk the moon
for nourishment. turn up the heat 
in the bathroom to sweat myself
free of all my hair. thighs are
the most important muscles & 
here i am with not one but two.
brotherhood on a coat hanger.
spit spikes in the sink from
the impending collar. 
i'll walk on all fours
if you hold the leash. beard blooms
like daffodil & blue bonnet.
i'm making a thicket of my face.
attaching burs to your back.
i want to be the lover who is 
hard to take off who years later
you wonder "where are they?"
my pronouns are very worn out 
so i wash them in the sink 
with orange dishsoap. i have a hard time 
correcting people when they call me
a prophet. i just saw god's ankles 
underneath the dressing room door.
i'm making a bumper sticket that reads
"supernatural = natural." nothing much else
to say about transformation other than that
it should be more hourglass flip
& less medical waste. though not my fault 
everything blue needs to blink 
itself awake. praise my scabby elbows.
praise the shed snake skin in the sink.
wasn't mine wasn't mine. purse me
to the graveyard water fountain.
let's talk about the gender of a knuckle.
mine is amethyst beneath the skin.
i'm having all my bones surgicall replaced
with crystals as fast as i can.
bones are really too heavy for this
kind of lift off. fill my shoes with dirt.
plant tomatoes. red comes so fast 
i can barely catch.