prophecies 

the knobs fall of my parent's cabinets
one by one like silver hearts
or empty dove eggs. naturally,
i am the son to harvest them.
fill my pockets. weighty little wrists.
the cabinets ask me to fix them 
& when i'm feeling generous i oblige.
screw the handle into thread bare hole 
& open to find whatever menagerie awaits.
once, i pulled up a chair to watch
a circus of moths teach each other
to waltz in the remnants of our flour.
another night i witnessed a rat
playing harmonica for a lost lover.
every cabinet is its own secret little show.
even the empty ones yield prophecies
if you stick you head inside
& close your eyes. 
hunger is a full-body memory. 
an opening that doesn't seal shut
even when humming with dried apricots.
when i eat from the cabinets
i feel like i'm throwing
sand into a suitcase. gaping each door
to ask crumbs if they remember
my searching as a child. ask
if they can assemble themselves
into a sitting room or a sanctuary.
once, i opened a cabinet & found
a mirror that would not hold
my reflection. how much had i thinned?
even light had no questions for me.
i asked my own what color 
are my eyes? no answer: refraction.
it is better tonight thogh. 
the cabinet feeds me
a television show about climate change
& i suck on the knob like a pearl.
something in the oven is going 
to be ready soon. i can feel the heat
in my skeleton. i'm goin
to eat with my fingers when 
there's no one else to see. 
i'm going to slip inside 
a cabinet door myself. 
become a picture-show or 
a package of dried milk.  

several kinds of alarm 

in the before times there were no sirens,
only birds trained by a monk 
in the courtyard where weeds grew
like children. he would bend down
& whisper horrors in their ears
to make them scream. a separate 
atrocity for each creature to spit
back out in sound. in the city,
we knew the sirens as women. great bodies
scrambling through the streets.
what does it sound like to search for
a child in the wild tall grass
& come up empty? 
we were both rooted for & ultimately 
unfound. slung our shoes over
a telephone wire. someone is calling home.
someone is calling you "darling."
sirens with the stoplight 
in the back of their throats.
i would count them as they passed.
cover my face. no. i'm not who
you're looking for. a tape recorder
in the living room taking inventory.
the loudest siren always rushed
from left to right. then, the ambient one
whose direction even she was unsure of.
as a child in the play yard i said prayers
for sirens. one hail mary. let all bodies
be whole. jars for screaming.
the birds in the courtyard. the monk
with a leather notebook for inventing 
terrors to give the birds. weeping,
he wants to tell the birds beautiful things only.
imagines saying, "i am in love
with another man." but instead swallows
that urgency. the birds are neccesary tools.
who else will be the warning if not them?
a bird landed on my windowsill
& shouted orange & red. i covered my ears.
i am skilled at ignoring emergency. i don't
even have a window or a windowsill.
the monk is walking out & nodding
at dandelions. the birds are gathering.

brother assemblage

i found the older brother on the edge
where the jupiter beetles truth tell
& the copper men reap dead wheat.
put a collar around his neck
& said, "this is how you younger."
we were great friends as well as blood.
took him home to show my parents
who were always busy chopping onions
& placing my embryos in the crock pot
for tomorrow. i proclaimed i no longer
needed to be the eldest. 
they thought he would weat off
like most alchemy performed 
by small inexperience boys. 
what they don't know is
i have a whole other few lives
just waiting in my pocket. 
when i cast, i reach for one
until that substance shivers.
the older brother wasn't a good listener
or really a good influence. he spat coins 
at lightposts. he growled when i offered
him a nice fresh tabloid. who do you go to
when you age is starting to fray?
i thought older brother would be
a nice solution. find someone looming
to place his finger on the wound
while i work as i need to.
the bulbs aren't going to collection themselves.
gender isn't going to arrive as it should:
shined & ready to be read. 
instead i write my pronouns on everything
i own: he he they ze he they ze 
he they they them his how help
here & there. brother scratches them off.
doesn't like idenity. believes we are
not the same person from moment
to moment. in the middle of a new moon night
wakes me up from his cage, leash still
around his neck, & says
he is no longer my brother.
let him go outback where
the mistaken clocks are just waking.
watch him lumber off between 
the glass grape vines. farewell.
farewell. farewell. 

root

like jump rope-strangle
my long hair haunts me.
i used to be an outdoor animal 
with ribbon teeth & loose waist.
when wrapped around myself five times,
i was a piano maker's daughter
with enough string to re-wire 
the planets in the mobile. 
in a foxhole,
she sleeps with her tail twisted
into a fisherman's knot. i coax her out 
with a handful of barrets. 
takes them gentle. lip & lip
& tongue. over & under.
laying down on the roof, 
gritty shingles against my back,
my hair would touch lawn below
& stray cats climbed my mane up
to perch with me by the chimney.
listen for smoke. swat at biplanes. 
chew purple bubble gum & complain 
about our scalps. the merri-go-round 
waited for a signal to spin shyly.
go go go. clouds on a dinner plate.
i carry her carcass 
to the nearest river.
clog a drain with my thoughts 
& half-drown before i notice 
i've flooded the whole scene.
in the old house, water would leak 
from tub to living room. evidence
the whole structure was fake. trust nothing
but hair. trust nothing but
what's attached at the root. 
a single strand coiled round my finger.
don't forget don't forget. 
my hair whispers 
as if length is something 
perishable. i'm growing back
like a field in april. skunk cabbage 
& swamp stung. keep the apples bobbing
& the swings tangled up 
with the telephone wires. 

the last ww1 soldier

dear florence green, i tied my skull
to a pigeon today 
& sent it to an old lover.
he will probably no know who it's from.
i don't know why i'm telling you this
but i discovered you on purpose.
i woke up with a need to know
the last surviving humans
of great wars & maybe that's not fair
to determine the width of someone's signficance
based on how long their past could follow them.
i haven't survived anything history-book-able.
or, maybe, it's just impossible
to see our lives as consequential.
do you care about being a woman?
about being the last woman alive 
whose blood remembers 
your particular battelfields?
would it be different, do you think,
if the last rememberer was a man?
i'm not sure, this is why i defer 
to your judgement. i am lucky in many ways. i keep 
all my battlefields in closets & notebooks.
once or twice in doctors waiting rooms
& toll booths. if i live to be 110, 
no one will attach a world to me (i hope).
i think the past will always be 
my greatest lover. i am eager 
to replay a night from years & years ago.
hence my skull delivered by bird. hence my
lingering feelings for once-friends houses
i pass now in my parent's neighborhood.
tell me, has the meaning of the world
"plane" changed for you over time
or do you still see biplanes when 
i say the word to you? when i say "lover"
i cannot picture one person. i can only
see a staircase & a windowsill
& a set of keys on a dining room table.
what i'm asking is, should we 
move on or should we always 
double back? florence, what did you tell
your husband in the cool dusk?
what did you recount & what image
did you save for yourself?
i am prone to slipping finger bones
into envelopes with no return address.
i won't write to you again. i know
you want to sleep now & so do i
but if you have the moment. send
telegraph or phonecall or letter.
answer me however you know how.
it could even be just a photograph.

drawing hands

i used to think i could will myself 
to recreate knuckle & thumb. stare 
long enough at my palms & my fingers
so that when i took pen to paper
i could replica with no hesitation.
my father bought me a sketch book
& i tried over & over. an orphanage
of hands sequestered in turning 
spacious white rooms. float wrists.
sink arms. my fingers reaching & coiling. 
then loose. clasping. in frustration, 
i would often tear a page out 
& then stop before crumpling my lop-sided hands.
then, simply fold & deliver them
to trash can burials. 
later, apart from pencil & pad,
my hands punished me. i folded them
on my chest. watched rise & fall
with each breath. 
from learning to be an altar boy, 
the only rule i remember
is to always have your hand around
a holy plate or a candle and, if not,
then it should be holding the other.
without me, sometimes, my hands would
knot themselves trying to transform
into birds or beings. 
in a mirror, i let them
touch my face with curiosity.
strange how i once thought my body whole
& then, upon inspection, can denote 
so many parts. my skull that asks 
to please recreate my hands 
& my hands, who, being the body's
mischeif conduits, refuse. 

burden 

every day, on a broken scale,
my grandmothers weighed themselves
like orange gatherings or pear pies.
pink tile bathroom. the sink 
crooning hymn or radio. 
still their ghosts come to measure pounds.
i watch from the bathtub where 
i have been trying to shave off a few pounds
with an old razor. you can remove
so much or yourself & most of it
will grow back. once, i carried a backpack
full of stones to forest
to offer the tree spirits 
a little new beauty. crystals polished
by hand. even the trees have scales
these days though. drop a limb.
shed leaves from the guilt.
in middle school we learned
about the egyptian land of the dead
but all i remember is a drawing
of thoth & his golden scales. 
a feather weighed against each person's soul.
ever since then, in preparation,
i collect every wisp i see: cat tail 
& blue jay tongue & bloom petal. 
i want to be able to know 
if i really can thin like an afterlife feather. 
salvation is something measured & recorded. 
my grandmothers know this. they make sacrifices
to the garbage disposal. they leave
the oven door open to speak yellow sermons
into kitchen. i pass through
all of this though knowing
the scale is broken. always reads:
107 lbs. i'm wondering if there is something 
perminantly un-shed-able? our bones weigh
about 20 lbs so it's not just skeleton.
something like memory going golden bird.
rib-caged. how heavy can a voice go?
mine doesn't float in water. sinks 
like bronzed shoes & arrows. my grandmothers
stock closets with rotten chocolate
& christmas lights. i build them ladders 
upon ladders to encourage their final
attic-ing. as for heaven, they tell me
you can only enter through a hole
the size of a thimble. they contemplate
what else they can get rid of. 
shake their heads & take scale turns again
until the sky is greasy with forecast. 


 

shape shifting 

we swallowed plastic bags for lungs.
felt their billow in each passing breeze.
i called us "parking lot" & we waited
for the impending mega bus mirage
to land full of knees. a single goldfish
woke up in my throat. glittered & 
sent me his scales. the first day i was 
amphibial all the water wanted 
was a little kiss but me, i needed
drenching. my gills made of soda tabs.
what does it mean that i spend so much time
switching out organs? a bouncy ball 
for a heart & now a lovely silver bowl stomach.
i'll get bored of them eventually though 
& pray to the dumpster for what else 
i can use to function. when i say 
"recycle" i mean i want to try over again.
hatch in the ether & relearn how to say 
my name. try each toe on for size.
in the asphalt we planted corn 
& it grews into stoplights. blink red-blue.
purple always asks too many 
of the right questions. television host
making promises just for me, saying 
"if you buy this new vertabrae you'll 
believe in god like only children do."
if we could just lay & look at mixed vegetables
making their rounds overhead. let's name
our first child "echo." let her split
in two & spend our time parsing her body 
between the skin & the ricochet.
when the lungs filled with water 
i poured them out in the backyard where
the bobcats have too much free time.
they played games on their electronic devices
& ruined their necks craning to see screens.
bother me please with you dream muscle.
a raft appeared in the middle of a drought
just to mock us. what i would have given 
to ride down artery towards body. 
it's all a series of skin circumferences.
earth needed a hair cut & you & me,
we needed floss & a hammock maybe or at least
a ball pit to land in. don't tell me
you didn't also dream of merging 
with the weeds. up to our necks 
in mulch-fracture. breathing in exhaustion.
we will make brilliant traffic cones one day
or at least stop signs. walking hand in hand
you told me the story about the rat 
& the free clothing bin. then, all night
all i could think about was whether i should
become a rat or rusted vibrant potential.
opened my mouth. let my lungs say "hush." 

CD brother

played prism wheels on the car
on the way home from the emergency photo album.
both in need of haircuts, we talked
about jupiter & her many boomboxes.
you have been trying to convert. i have
been trying to reach the top shelves
to find where mom keeps the extra key.
there is a song that stop playing
only when we put something else in
& a brother who only exists inside
the song on track 14. eating takeout 
from the garbage city. forks twiddling 
in our hearts like antenae. neither of us
are every very hungry but you take liberties 
with air. stretch a breath across 
a violin belly & call it music. stuff night
inside boots & walk carefully
on a little carpet rolled out 
from the ceiling light. you taught me
how to ascend into the popcorn machine.
brain are bursting every other second
in the heat of our faces. the song ends
& it's just the two of us killing time
with plastic bow & arrows. stomaching
the spider dances: waltz & waltz again.
soup can full of lost teeth. 
drinking water from the forbidden fountain 
& feeling freshly sinful. who left
the hose running? well it became
a brief river. dipped in our toes
& kicked the bottom to find
ear buds lodged in the mud. 
my brother & i have too much & 
too little in common. he sleeps
with his hands folded in prayer 
& i sleep with my face off on
the nightstand. crave that dark 
anonymity. plays music from his 
eyes & mouth. endless. jazz & chants 
& folk & gospel. flips a CD over 
& presses his finger to the clear surface
just to hear the sound of his own fingerprint.
asked me i wanted to try & i said
"no way" even though of course
i was painfully curious. instead i pressed
thumb to window. left the print there
& visit it still like a shrine--
a staircase to be obversed but never
taken all the way down.
my brother sometimes snapped CDs in half
if they disobeyed him. left those
color-hungry wings in the garden.
took my shoes off to walk
in that soft dirt & hear those 
fissured songs. brother with 
his tie undone. me with my 
face on the clothesline. counting 
the seconds before the song 
starts over again from the top. 

good son / good fathers 

there is a father around every corner
holding snake neck or bottle-rocket waist.
my fathers are persistent
in the ways they seek alarm.
harvest each flinch for 
some kind of future alchmey.
maybe building the panic machine.
scurry on hands & knees 
to the basement apparatus. down there 
they try to dig happiness out of dirt.
clawing with bare fingers
they run into the shale layer
& give up, just laying there. eyes like
moonstone rings. fingers like teeth. 
i set traps for my fathers:
bear trap & trap door & snares 
& dead falls. too many fathers 
to round up all together
but picking off one or two can be helpful. 
i collect their beer bottles from
windowsills & sometimes discover
a shout or a prickly desire 
seated at the bottom of the brown glass.
once a bottle asked me "are you
my mother?" i wanted to shatter it
but instead i took the bottle
to the emotional recycling plant
where that longing could be 
reassigned to someone else. 
that's all they do. my fathers
crouch & pull & pull until 
their fragiles bursts free,
scrambling for air. i too was
nothing more than a gasp to them.
a sharp question sliced 
between carpet & ceiling. 
i buy the fathers whatever they want:
doritos & all kinds of other potato chips 
& bacon cheeseburgers & licorice. 
it's all kind of my fault. 
i spoil them. can yu blame me though?
there is a certain gravity
only caused by the thought 
"my father might finally see me."
i've been imagining that moment
since i can remember. one father,
it doesn't matter which, will stand 
& stroke my head. call me
"good son. good son" & then slink off
to continue his compulsions. 
as for me, i'll turn a corner
just to be frightened by the different father
but this time i'll laugh with him 
& he too will clap my on the back,
smiling with his fingers before
returning to his work. until then 
i'll proceed with my 
beautiful cautions &
dream of houses with no corners.
just one smooth round room
to spin in.