white noise closet

sand rained down like hush hush
hush. i want a container 
so the desert can tell us 
what it's been thinking. the old moon
replaced with a fresh hard boiled egg.
aliens waiting by their phones 
for the truth. in the box 
i converse with dead televisions
& they suggest i plug my ears 
with ice. the slow release. 
a tiny coffee mug chews a hole
in my palms. you walk through 
as if i were a photographable arch.
at the end of the universe & the hallway
is a lush park where all the trees
never change & sound is caramel textured.
i like the grit of my closet though.
the way it makes me prickle. 
sometimes i grow needles 
& everyone backs away. 
a cactus once whispered to me 
get out of the sunlight so i bought
sunglasses at the corner store.
a doorknob is a kind of jewerly.
don't touch. don't open. my sound
is personal & you don't undestand
what it means to capture.
tongues are a brand of doorknob.
here none of my thoughts
go skipping away with hard candies
in their mouths. i am a choking hazard.
i am at risk of falling
& cracking my head open 
like a bowl of punch. marshmallows
swell where the ice should be.
i'm all about coaxing sugar
out of the cracks in the wood.
in the closet, i can't turn around.
just to be clear, this isn't
the gay or trans closet.
this closet is less about keeping
& more about salvation.
this is the kind of box you could
get raptured inside if you're
not careful. never be too holy
or you might get lifted
on a day when god is lonely.
i make sure to commit 
small managable sins 
each & every day. the rush gushes 
from under the door & i try
to scoop it up. don't go.
keep me close & stormed. i want
to have no dry air in my head.
what can you do but lay 
on the floor & hear all the neighbors
in the world talking about 
traffic cones & lost lovers.
i am a leftover person. 
wait on the other side 
of the door. don't knock 
i'm busy with a plummet. 

knife me yes

the serrated church 
is opening like a too-early blossom
on the face of the dead lake.
my backyard is an ice zoo
full of howler monkey echos. 
the knifes take a walk 
hand in hand like sisters.
if i had a sister i would
have cut off her hair as if
she were a doll. on a thursday
anyone can be sacred. a collective
waiting moth perches 
on my wrist. the phone 
disconnects & i try over & over
to sit back in your mouth
in the grandfather-smelling recliner.
hang knives on the wall. 
throw knives to stick in the ceiling.
it's the knife's birthday (hurray!).
power is a fleeting planet,
easily severed. 
rising & sharp behind the sun. 
would take only one day
to walk the circumference.
the knife knows everything 
there is to know about my 
fondant & my cream. marched 
down the street carrying a bucket
of roadkill. i want ethically sourced
bones. the knife wants 
to pare everyone he meets
down to the smallest division.
if you saw us in august 
you wouldn't believe 
what we've become. cubed,
i glisten like the only appetizer.
tooth picks swarm in the drawer.
knife of me, you knew
exactly what to say to make me
ring. knives multiply 
the longer you leave them 
without a block of cheese 
to muster. table covered 
in knives. knives lonely. 
my skin a platter you used to
leave your shoes on. how should we 
spend the last nights of our winter?
i want to take turns 
throwing knives out the window.
don't try to stop me. 

pigeon 

i ask to be one of them.
it's march & out the window
i watch them parade each day
back & forth by the railroad tracks
as empty trains pass through 
like milk cartons. 
clusters & coups & caravans
of pigeons. 
they stare holes through buildings.
everything whistles in the wind.
i show them my skin 
& they plant rows 
of iridescent feathers,
working swiftly with their beaks
excited to have another 
piece of the flock. 
i can't understand most what they say
mutter mutter mutter: soon 
& please & faster & hunger
hunger & hear & soon soon
soon. get on my knees 
to follow them to the garbage kingdom 
on the other side 
of the concrete supermarket.
where will you think i've gone
when you come to find
my bedroom full of feathers 
& a bird sitting at my desk?
will you shoo my down the hall
& out the window
or talk to me softly 
as if i were really your lover?
it doesn't matter though
because the pigeons say
i can't return. they say
here & now  here & now here & now.
you come home from work 
& slip into the alley. how have 
i come to miss the most mundane
parts of my life? 
i eat trash with the rest.
learn a song about wheels 
& weather. sky greys. a clouded eye.
we rush beneath 
train station's roof as 
it pours. i think of windows
& how water drips across 
that surface. the pigeons 
dream of factories & plastic.
the pigeons promise me 
after a week or so 
i won't even remember
moving without a congregation.
at night i miss you most.
look for your bright window
to dim before i let myself sleep.
maybe one afternoon
you'll join us. i'll sew you
with feathers &, in secret,
away from the others 
we'll talk about 
what it used to be like. 

retreat

i carry dictionary 
to the bottle cap with the goal
of losing one word at a time.
pluck them out like eye lashes
until i image bubble.
carbon in the creases. carbon
in the air. build humans 
to stand tree-like in the causeway.
take me for what i'm worth:
a necklace of fake pearls 
or a second ear-piercing.
sewing an umbrella by hand
i decide to name it "sundown."
in the mirror, a dinner plate
looks back at me. i want to eat
less & more. survive off only
windchime feasts. language
saunters up & down my spine 
& i tell it to settle down.
i tell it not to bother 
with whatever it is i need.
the lexicon is a neighbor 
smoking on his/her porch
& watching the plow go by.
for now, i don't have anything to say. 
the last truth i told was about
my tongue in the grotto. 
a "you" laughed a lot & i cried
hoping to skim the you towards an "us."
i replace the word "vacation"
with "vow." i want to take
a vow to a beach no one else
knows about. unstick "us"
from the ceiling. walk, a shoe
in each hand, & fill them 
with quartz. the mine is open
& ready for theft. replace "mine"
with "morning." i want to tell you
how to word each other 
into the right basement.
turn the lights off i want 
to suck on my pictures in peace.
can't you hear the world 
turning to fabric? rustling 
then gone. 

before GPS

i folded the map into a bird
& asked it where we should be going.
night was no longer as issue 
seeing as we'd taken the daylight pills.
we just wanted an arrival.
you toyed with the radio 
inside your own mouth & 
i put my feet up on the dashboard.
no one held the steering wheel,
it just pizza-ed back & forth as
the road accordioned then thinned
to the width of a thumb. 
my grandmother's car smelled 
like burnt hair & rosaries. we held 
our breath. we stole everything, 
including our teeth. 
we didn't deserve 
the welcoming trees.
they rained flowers on us
as if we'd just been married.
had we? had we just 
been married? i can't remember. 
i am prone to lying about
both important & unimportant details. 
this was the time before GPS
so there was no device to ask 
how or what we needed. rolled down
the window to fish the air 
for flavor. did i craved 
a chapel or two? did you hunger
for a gas station? braided 
sun beams to use as belts.
we backseat-broke our jaws 
using them as sickles. 
i asked you, "can we 
go home now" & you laughed 
until you turned into 
a cluster of bubbles. i was
traveling with no one then
or possibly all along. 
it is terrifying to realize 
you are the driver & ahead 
is a decision. turn signals
arrived like clucking birds.
i asked the map 
what the name of the mountain was
& she shrugged. i was not
going home, was i? 
longer & longer, the road ran out
of things to say so we both
just stared at each other.
i parked on the side
of a whirling highway
where the sky handed out
personalized stars. 
i held out my hands 
& cupped the spool of light.
it sang of jupiter sunsets 
& a fireplace large enough
to eat us all. with it, i slept
in the lilting backseat.
fell asleep to headlight
then taillight
headlight then tailight. 

allergen 

in the orange pollen yard my eyes
swell like turnips. blood gnawing
angrily at the air. i am a sea
of swordfish waiting to be kissed.
let me tell you about autumn 
& how my skin layered with the leaves.
searched pockets for green. 
lead in my bodies & my skull.
i keep my spare throat 
beside the cutlery. run it under
water in the sink. 
my father thins 
to a deflated balloon
& spirals in broth-thick september.
wears his nose as a pendant. 
who is going to teach my body
to swallow atmosphere? 
inside each of my cells
is a classroom full of folding chairs.
rows of boys. they all pick up their books
& run before the bell has rung. 
i make pills of my family's dust.
find a net to scoop the flitting 
from the butterflies. in the attic
we keep dead photographs
(ones we picked figures from
to use for dinner). empty frames.
i go there to ask bats 
for advice. show them the hives 
blooming across my collar. 
they say ailments can be nice
accessories. my eyes drip until 
i'm feeding a creek. 
water-striders strut across
the flow from my face. i crouch like
an afflicted statue. remove parts
one by one. first the eyes 
then the skin. save blood in mason jars.
i am a nothing in a rib cage. i wait
for all the world to be repackaged
with less fur & less crumbs.
climb the ribs like monkey bars
& dangle upside down. someone
bring me my throat! i want 
to pass the morning by singing. 

anti-aubade for a kutztown 

i'm too cold to be a horse
& not humid / sticky enough 
to be a soccer field. 
all day buggies parade 
back & forth to a tiny graveyard.
the barn only has one side
& that side looms to crush 
an unsuspecting hoof. i'm not
a disciple of the winter field 
but i know it well enough to 
chart its characteristics:
crooked stalks & a scare crow
with the likeness of a boy 
i used to sleep with. the word 
"home" has recently turned
into a cloud-writing. stares down
from above & laughs. houses 
bloom like cows & chew on 
electric wires. often i try 
to walk myself into existence
as if my legs might trapzee 
horizon & horror. as if i might
bring forth a new town from 
beneath the bones of the old. 
young & naive i used to promise
never to return to my dirt.
over turned & shook out my shoes.
i used to sweat off apple trees
& stairwells. they always find me.
tunnel through vein & here i am
at a funeral for horses. who 
is going to carry me when 
the gravel is not enough to hold
car wheels & cake plates? 
i brother with the treacherous
side-of-road slivers. everything
is thinner than it should be. 
mailbox wilts with voices 
in her head. no one is listening
so i talk into a future flower.
cup my hands. telephone the fire house
& let them know a hex sign 
in burning where the sun should be.
the clock tower slower looses 
all its hours until it's only
noon ever hour. or midnight
depending on who you ask. 
i meander to the edge where
a crease frills like lace. caress
the boundary & tell myself
i'm leaving very soon. 

microwave sweet potatoe

my heart cooks unevenly.
is prone to the textures of 
syrup & soil & cedar. will you
set the timer on my face,
tell me tomorrow i'll swell
so round in the dirt 
you'll have no oven to fit me?
please come kiss my dirt stained face.
brush off the old fingers
& replace them. hold my whole heft
in one patient hand. at the farm,
we used to unearth ourselves.
used to dig & see a nose
or an ear. pluck herbs 
like they were just
the pages of old dictionaries.
switch the sun out for an onion.
hold frying pans 
like purses. at the end of the hall
is always a microwave.
watch my face rotate 
on the small glass plate.
around & around i go softening
to an apology. i need to exist
without slice or sorry
but i'm too busy asking
if you know what went wrong
with my burrowing. we find hearts
in the floorboards. handcuff ourselves
to cabinet doors. i'll keep all winter.
i'll feed us day in & day out.
my tongue replenishes. no matter
how many mornings it aches with root.
you used to put me in the wheel barrow
& call me "tomorrow." i used to
look up at the sky & imagine
the clouds & the blue also the texture 
of earth. how dare it be 
un-caress-able. 
breathe my steam
& my cirus. 
i have your familiar 
in my carapace. let's grow old
& less valuable. 

germination

we hung the seed chandelier 
in the red room with no other furniture.
went to stare at it in the morning
& before bed as a kind of worship.
you always told me you didn't believe
in religion but all humans harbor 
a need to pray. i'd seen how well
you could kneel. your mouth opened for me
like a halfed bell pepper, hollowed & holding
onto your own private air. 
our stems green-ached all night,
knowing the fixture swung in secret.
did you wake up in the middle of the night
to check its progress? i did. barefoot. 
thought of eloping alone. is that still
eloping? yes, because i would take
the chandelier with me. hand it from
the roof of my mouth & wait patiently
for the growing. once, in the bathroom
i saw you prune your hair of leaves.
i told you, "why don't you keep them"
& you scowled like i was speaking in roots.
our bed turns to soil. i have to
shovel you out each day. this is not what
a house looks like. or, maybe, i was mislead 
about what our future would be 
with the seeds waiting a room away.
i hear their coiled thoughts: red / ripe /
august / knife / never / near / not me / not me /
you can't tell me we aren't parishioners.
i come again as dawn is blinking in the back window. 
lay on my back & stare up at the knot 
of white button seeds. tiny pendants. 
if i could where them in strands like beads,
witness the first opening against my skin. 
yes. i'll be too-close sun. blaze
& call for eyelids. we have taught each other
new ways to shut. here is my knob 
& my crook. a room away you're sinking deeper.
becoming a seed yourself. i could never
have stopped you. wash my trowels
with my spoons. shout from the red room
"wake up! wake up! 
you're missing them." 

in the hospital for sick moons

the hallways are paved with ripe rust.
take off your shoes & socks off at the entrance.
you need to remember every texture. 
drink water from a hole in the wall. 
i used to bring my moon flowers, years ago
when i thought she would improve.
took the elevator up to the building 
& tapped on the window to be let inside.
brought her dead daylilies & then
a potted violet. she slept & slept 
still as a stone. i still visit now 
just empty handed. make fists sometimes
& once i brought a crystal to leave 
by her nightstand. the moon doctors wear
ice out of respect for space temperatures.
their faces blurr beneath the surface
& their voices sound like trying to speak 
with a wall between you. it is lonely
loving a sick moon. coming to see her
perched in her bed like a beach ball.
i remind her when she used to loom
in the night sky round & full.
how, for all my life, i would look up 
at her glow & coiled around a sliver
of future. no one knows why moons
fall ill. there are theories but no evidence.
they do tests on the moon. removed
a fragment of her rock & stare at it.
when the test yields nothing
they give me the piece of her &
i pocket it. feel its weight all day
as the healthy sun blathers on 
about fatherhood. i do not know
if the moon will ever be well again.
her slumber only seem to deepen.
where did we go wrong moon? i never seen
a moon leave the hospital. just new ones
arriving from all across the galaxy:
small & ominous & blue & red moons.
the ocean weeps itself higher. the sea level
touches my ankles.
poets take to writing about the clouds 
where she used to dangle. 
on the elevator down i think about
how i would switch places with her
if i could. let her have skin & a body
& let me lay still while doctors tended 
to my surface. does she see us working?
does she look up 
at faces behind ice & remember 
how she used to swell? i tell her 
each time how much she is missed.
i say "get better soon."