metamorphosis

i shout at you until you become
a gummy bear. clear as a window
& lying face up. i'm terrible 
at confrontation. the last voice
i had came from a can & the next one
i'm going to purchase on eBay.
cupping you in my palms, i carry you
to your own little plate. 
i'm very sorry
it had to happen like this. 
this will come undone soon 
when i lose all resolve. i've never
been a sturdy caster. 
what were we fighting about? nevermind
nevermind. afterall, aren't all disagreements
a matter of horseshoes 
& who is holding the stake?
here is a teaspoon of my dirt 
in exchange for your silver shovel. 
let me tell you a story 
about my parents:
they fought like weathering,
like how the Appalachian mountains
are losing their faces
an inch or so at a time
while other mountains still find 
the urge to reach. 
there they are pushing like bird beaks 
into the ripe spring clouds.
i honed this technique to stop
my trembling. i'm told i have
a molten core but haven't seen it. 
apologies apologies. in the sink
there is a bullhorn you can blown into
if you want to make me regret what i said. 
i take back 
my taking back. i meant what i said 
when i promised to eat nothing but sugar 
until you tend me 
like you should. 
here is the ransome letter
for the years you didn't do very well.
i was the gummy bear too. clear 
& mystery flavor. stood still
in fear. pressed between 
a forefinger & index. tell me
what you know about change?
how quickly can you shift
your expectations? i can 
yank the table cloth out
from under my tongue. my door
sheds its lock every single time
i try. watch me. 
clench your fists
if you want so badly to be undone. 
you were good at sugar. you were
a warble in the kitchen. windows
blink. my eyelashes shake 
like leaves. now tell me a story 
about your parents. mine perch
like songbirds on the car roof
i say, "i have to go."
you say, "i need more time." 

easter vigil

i put my night in the machine
like a token-- tell my head
to replay your fingers against 
my arm. i'm made nothing but
a conduit for mornings 
& here i am now
standing in my backyard 
movie projectoring an afternoon
over & over.
i want you closer than any doorway.
above, a flock of geese chatter
& i tell them i am falling in love
with your voice. they squawk 
& talk about salvation. they are 
returning after a long winter.
they are flying in an arrow pointing 
towards the mountain. i tell them
to make sure they rest soon.
in this blue dawn i'm wishing
over & over that i had met you sooner.
i ask: what about january?
what about november? 
in pennsylvania 
each season brings their certain ghosts.
spring has never retrieved me like this.
dew damp against my feet. daffodils 
turning telephone & ringing.
tell me, when will i see you again?
when will i see you again?
for each hour i'm 
hunting dandelions to sustain
the bright you left me. 

the phone company 

the empty phone # calls to say 
"i love you" & i hang up & drive
to the nearest gas station 
in search of a gift. buy three
dust-veiled peanut-butter eggs 
& a pair of sun glasses. 
at home i tie them to a blue balloon
& send them off to the telephone company
in the sky. i wait for the call again.
knit a sofa cover in the meantime 
& try to imagine a mouth
on the other side of the line. 
lips like hummingbird wing-beats.
talking too fast to hold onto.
"i love you" they has said & 
why had i hung up. i was startled.
you wait for something so long
& then its arrival startles you. 
in our houses, we are all waiting
for our phone call requests. some people
want to have long conversations
with grandmothers they don't have.
others want phone sex or to talk
with a long lost son. i just want
the "i love you" & that's as far
as i get. the sidewalk outside 
appears almost walkable despite
the earth's warbling layers.
what i really want to say is
"come meet me. i keep a place set
at my table just for you."
it's true. i do. fork, knife,
plate, & glass of water.
i would make you whatever ration
you like best. i would tell you
whatever you wanted to know
about my phone habits. 
we could give our secret to no one & then,
as you shift started over at the phone
you could just call me & we could
call for hours. you could just
breathe into the line. it would be
almost like freedom. call me again.
call me again please. the phone's quiet
is like a sleeping heart--
like a bird falling from a tree.
did you not want to love me too?
it could not have just been obligation.
i heard the leaning in your voice.
you wanted to come lay down 
with me & never be lonely again.
you wanted to spill through the phone,
warm skin of your cheek pressed
to my cheek. i don't need to know 
your name, i just need you to say 
that again. please even just once. 

1/2 size 

we grew nails from a rusted bush in the yard.
shook it with one gloved hand to watch 
sharp nails of all sizes clatter to the ground. 
in the basement, my father was 
a hammer &, on bad days, a wrench 
or a broom handle. we brought him bowls
of nails & whatever bolts we could dig
from the wet post-down pour dirt.
put our ear to the door to tell if he
was sleeping or working. the constant pounding
of his face against a project. he built
cupboards & clocks & catastrophes & 
cirus podiums & once a series a doll houses
my brothers & i take turns living in. 
often, i wish i was small so i could
fit my whole life in there. instead, i stand
in doll houses that only reach my calves.
there is one a little larger that reaches
up to my waist. i try all the time
to fold myself in half. 
from where i stand the stairwell. 
i hear my uncle, the table saw, 
whirling & clawing at wood.
i'm scared of all the men in my family.
rehearse over & over how to ask my uncle
to sever me clean in two. he often cuts
what my father makes. a little machine,
the two of them. assembling then 
pairing down. how many times could i 
be halved before i'm nothing?
i'm worried i'll become addicted 
to lessening if i try it once.
so, i stay upstairs where my mother
uses her skull to stir a pot of broth.
in my nightmares i become a 1/2 size hammer 
& i sit right beside my father.
smack & smack until i'm toothless
& metal. i wake & wash my face 
in the bathroom. early morning before
even my father has awakened. 
i go down to the basement to see 
the silent materials. just wood 
& nails & a work bench. feel thankful 
it is briefly so silent & wonder if there
might be a hammer lurking inside me waiting
to demand substance & structure
& sons. i walk back upstairs.
shut the basement door & go to
the attic to pace between doll houses
until i find one to nestle in.
the sun is a fire alarm & i hear my father
tumble down the stairs.
  

heaven arcade 

use your dim devotion joy stick 
to take me across your pixel.
everyone at their own 
autographed machine.
i have been waiting 
for my soul to seep out 
like tea in hot graphics card water.
i've been staring up 
at the big night screen
looking for loot.
i was a token maker in the end times
& my pocket heavy with attempts 
at running across the river styx. 
play me the original version 
& i'll hold down the "run" button.
"press me" bloomed red on your back
& i never mentioned just
resisted the urge to touch. 
manna will be delivered via
slot in the staircase.
another life waiting 
at the buckle. little self
with its hands pressed together
in prayer. i heard that 
in the fountain 
you can fish for your own face
& find another round. 
play again & again. take the
both photo with a silly face.
five-hundred points to go 
for the real sliver swords.
another thousand & you could
achieve the plastic boat.
ride it home where nothing 
is electic at all. your feet 
ask too many questions. this is just
another movement mechanism.
lights flash as they come 
like collisions. a mallet
to keep the fathers 
in their silos. one more game
before salvation. 
take off your shoes 
to go in the ball pit.
one huge sphere to converse with.
your forehead frayed
with all the after-ing.
who is going to unplug 
the engine when it inevitably 
overheats with all the joy litter.
reboot in the process 
of saving foot step. take it back
before you can remember 
the neccessary puzzle pattern.
god in his boss stage
no taking visitors. starting
once again in the false green.
a ring twirling 
like an unwearable halo.
extend one more time.
cloud glitch & your buggy shoes.
let's walk down 
to the invisible edge
& sing. 

hesitation

i fill the bath tub with dead light bulbs.
then the sinks & then the closets. 
can't throw them out for fear of they'll 
tattle on me & my ceilings.
even the most durable bulbs don't last long
in the thunder of my door frames. i am 
a dark corridor in the shadow of 
the mountain. at night i leave 
all the switches open to ward off
wayward monsters who drag their tails
down my street at night. someone is home
someone is home, i say under my breath.
light bulbs are grown in a green house 
or bloomed naturally along super highways.
i only get the best. ripe with 
headlight & engine. i have forgotten
what the rooms look like in the dark.
i don't let it happen. take a bath
in the historical bright. a flickering 
hallway. in & out if time. the monsters 
are prone to stealing lamp posts, uproot
a whole stalk & lug it into the trees.
i change light bulbs even in the sun
just to be safe. cup bulbs in my hands
& give them a gentle little shake.
i imagine a city for my dead. streets of
filament & skull. a light coming 
from a patient never waning moon.
at best, i am tipsy as light bulb 
on a rec room floor. i dance
with the dead. i dip my hands 
in shatter. socket after socket.
re-screwing in my head & waiting 
for the glow. another one out almost
as quick as i lodged it. beautiful 
like liar fire. you did your very best
in this hollow. my apartment used to be
on the third floor & now it is 
below the earth. o plumetting life. 
a sacket full of tomorrows. a bulb
a day keeps the surgeon away.
my head throbbing with volume.
how would you like to be lit?
from the front? from the back?
lamp cranes his neck down
to meet me. blinks like a child
before going dim & gone. 

college tour

she points to a brick building
& says "that's where they keep monkeys 
for research." the campus is very green
& too pamphlet to be touched.
the tour guide has perfect skin
& walks backwards. i imagine the distance
from here to home & from home
to my boyfriend's mouth. when you're
eighteen every moment is a string
of gaps you want to close or widen.
holding a folder close to my chest.
i wear a flower crown. a blue dress. 
girl girl
girl. the tour guide speaks
in numbers & ratios: roomates 
& meals & stairs & credits &
teacher:student & student:window.
i think of the monkeys as we walk 
the small lush campus. monekys 
in their own little dorms. 
i want to ask  
"what kind of monkeys?" 
"how did they get here?"
"are they happy?" "why do you need
monkeys for research?" living
subjects. their wrinkled knuckles.
we trade SAT scores & she tells me
to take a prep class i know
we can't afford but i nod
& say "yes." my flip flop
keeps breaking but i just slide 
it forward on the sidewalk.
early decision. yes. early 
decision. the monkeys
maybe sleeping this early
along with the students all 
honeycombed away. my dry elbows.
her glowing face. 
in the admissions office 
i pluck more pamphlets 
from the wall because i'm not sure 
what else to do with my hands 
while i wait. 
none of the pamphlets mention 
the monkeys. before my short interview
i listen to a mom coaching
her son for his. she says,
"make sure to talk about
the africa mission trip. make sure
to talk about AP classes."
in my own all i can think about
are the monkeys. what do 
their cages look like?
who is tending them right now?
we talk about the great gatsby.
i try desperately to sound smart
& to look like someone else--
someone not from a gravel road 
with a wonky mailbox. i smile
to hide my crooked tombstone teeth. 
after, i wait in the parking lot
for mom to pick me up.
it is september & autumn 
still seems impossible. my bare
shoulders. the backs of
my knees. campus trees hushing
in the wind. needing to leave
as soon as i could-- the campus
unbearably real as college students
walked to the dining hall 
& sat on the green lawn
& monkeys thrummed somewhere
in a building's belly like secrets. 

rabbit houses

i wasn't ready to be eaten 
but you were.
the house glowed like a bow 
of legs. i thought of being 
a soft tennis ball
rolling in the grass. 
the mother machine 
with her chattering teeth.
you were timid as they come
with your face always averted
from the trough. what is hay
but a rope to hold
into the next day. i told you
we should find a home elsewhere.
out in the woods where
the real rabbits practice witchcraft 
& worship moss. 
you shook your head
& laid down like a sofa.
wire wall. we saw the humans 
in their morning rituals.
their pressed hands & their 
headlight monsters. 
putting their faces on one 
at a time until they were 
a whole laughter. a tunnel 
under the home. a ladder into 
a tree. anything. we could
evaporate 
& become our favorite clouds:
you the feathery ones & me
the thick potato-gut ones.
you said you knew 
too much about meat & 
that you were curious 
about thighs. every house
is the same. there is one 
who wants to depart 
& one who wants
to be part of the process.
the houses are lined up
in a row. i would wave
to the other rabbits 
but they would pretend not to see.
sometimes it is easier to be
just one house instead
of a row. you said you prayed
to be taken next. in a next life
you believed you would be
a shoe maker or a chimney sweep.
so, in the night i slipped away.
i didn't stop until the sillos 
were pills in the distance.
the forest thickened like 
a scab. green green green. 
i looked for a rabbit house.
there had to be one. 
where there are rabbits 
there are sure to be nice enclosures.
a bowl of water. a paw's worth of feed.
nothing but dripping leaves.
deeper & deeper the forest turned
to wire. my hair down to 
my waist. my fingers long 
as sapling arms. then, fur falling out
in clumps. then, naked in the brush.
not ghost quite. not tetter or trip. 
paws turned finger & palm.
the trees coiled to curtain rode hooks 
& all the windows came alive again.
trees sitting outside. my rooted children.
then, the rabbit houses in their rows.
empty & staring back at me.
waiting for a visit from my spine.
need to build more in case 
they come. you can never have enough
rabbit houses. 

proximity 

i chose the wrong template. 
meant "stay here" & said "go anywhere."
my beautiful box  
began in the nowhere forests 
where only trees know how to fastfood 
& all neighbors do is search 
with their metal detectors for baby shoes. 
each day the little home moved.
at first it was not noticeable.
just an inch or two that added up 
over months. built a fence
& the walls slowly pushed it flat.
tied a piece of pink yarn to my ankle
when i left so i could find 
my way back. you sent me letters
that arrived by drone. the letters
were always blank but i cherished them.
someone can say how they love you
with their absences. invisible ink
is also a possibility. when were you
coming to visit? i would ask but had
no return address. the house was 
restless though & took 
longer & longer leaps. one morning
i woke up to the deserts lavender sweat
& another day, at the bottom of a lake
i peered out the window &
counted fish hooks. 
every time i am careful 
to forgive my house. 
press hand to bathroom tiles 
& say "you're doing your best."
is everyone doing their best?
no like productivity but
proximity. 
i can't remember the last time
we were within walking distance
when i could, with a paper airplane,
reach you with everything crucial.
next day: a carnival beach. next day:
a sad pennsylvanian strip-mall lined highway.
no messages from others & i start
to wonder if your walls do this too.
one day i wake up to the sound
of the train that used to rattle past
our apartment in mineola.
i bolt up & run to the tracks
incase you are coming back
from an airport. incase there is 
a man waiting there for me.
i go & no one at all gets off the train.
by the time i return the house has
moved on without me. all the telephones
tell me, "i'm sorry" & then go dull.
if you hear this message, lover,
will you keep an eye out for my bed?
if you see it roaming will you
try to call me? i know the odds
of catching such a thing are slim.
i slip my hope in ziploc bags
press the air out & pocket them.
touch my finger to where
the house used to lonely vibrate. 
can i come visit you? can you come
find me? i am in need
of a great re-introduction.
name me something new. cut off my hair.
i'll do anything. 

hands & knees 

the clothe tunnel was crimson 
& necessary catastrophe. cut it with 
craft scissors unfit for skin
into the wall made for averting.
i craved the close & the throat way.
followed it down into the belly
of your glass. how does a boy
descend into cupboard 
without a knife in their pocket?
my knife had a mind if its own 
& carved my name in every single stair.
knee to node & hand to heiroglyph. 
the tunnel (like a trap) is promising
another field of light bulbs.
a glow like i've never heard.
the fire escape is concrete 
& not meant for kissing but 
we could if you wanted to.
under the surface i'm always
the wrong boat. the other entity 
is shaking & sending me back 
in the box i came in. so, i said
i have a tunnel & i'm going
away away for no more judgements 
& inventory. i'm going to a 
depth made of whale hearts 
& gay longing. i left my finger nails
at the door & made a halo from
dry pasta. the into is the best part.
i have no need for the actual elsewhere
just give me the widest passage
& i can learn home in that crossing.
hampster tube from gender to gender.
run my hands across the wall.
a pipe is a system of arrival 
& i intend to misuse it for dwelling.
sew covers to mimic dead ends.
i live between over & almost.
feathers blow past one day 
& i grasp one. tastes like
truth serum & i confess to
wanting a bed frame & a bird cage. 
just the frame. just the cage.
i can feel my whole family watching tv
& having very little thoughts about it.
if only they had a tunnel 
like mine where only 
rats have CD players 
& only i am headed towards
a stoplight. clean the tunnel.
keep it company. one day it'll 
cough me up in a hydrangea bush.
the butterflies will be bigger
than my head & we'll drink
red licorice milk & weep.