toy store ouija board

a marionette asks me how old i am 
& i reply seventeen minutes. 
all our fingers are trapped 
in finger cages. the pinwheels
can't handle these gails & 
our bubble wands are bent from blowing.
everyone assumes a toy is a frivolous thing.
no object is more alive. two minutes ago
i was swallowing clouds & trying
to be a teddy bear. or, in other words,
trying to be a man's shelf sleeper. 
i wanted to wait patiently for touch.
a toy is a cite of miniaturing 
or make-realing. i believe in wooden tops
& doll house murders. the toy shop 
teems with unfulfilled 'maybes'.
we take out the ouija board
first to contact our grandfathers 
& then to ask the other side 
how to stop being so bloody. 
hands hovering so close to touching.
bumping each other's knuckles. 
nothing is just a toy because especially
a ouija board. the windows shake.
the adults melt like wax statues.
here we are so close to a truth.
yes or no. spell the future for me 
my plastic dream slate
"T-O-M-O-R-R-O-W." 
we sit & wait for ball-joints
& synthetic hair or at least a wooden heart.
all i really want is to be 
grasped in one hand like an implement.
play with me soon. 

rental car

is everything splendid borrowed?
you let me read your Rita Dove books
& i didn't write in them
knowing i would have to return 
each cracked spine to your shelf. 
your room smelled like cactus candle 
& brushed teeth. the window laughed 
flecks of car tire alley way.  
do you miss what you took from me?
i miss miss removing your shirts
from the laundry bag before you got home.
i would wear them like dresses 
& then place them back, fumbling 
to fold them as they came. last autumn
when i was a made of different
less vibrating molecules
i rented the car i drove to my parent's house. 
grey rain spit water constellations 
on the wind sheild.
the radio came in clear as a knife.
i plugged my phone in & played 
Death Cab for Cutie's Plans from start
to finish. i pretended 
the car was mine even though i only had
four days with it. i forget why
i even came home. the drive from 
New York to corn field Pennsylvania 
dwindled me to nothing but urges.
i wanted to stand in the backyard. i wanted
to walk the dog all the way over 
the waning moon. staring at the car 
in the gravel driveway, it looked terribly
out of place. all shiny & white &
fresh. the insides smelled translucent.
the headlights cut holes in my father.
i said i missed you when i didn't.
i was only thinking about missing the car
& missing this american gasoline freedom.
in my parent's house, we wear couches down
until their stomachs touch carpet.
i do the same. let my shoes come to pieces.
sand my heart down to a mirror. 
i took my brother on a ride 
around the block & i considered
car dealerships. all their newness.
i envied all steering wheels.
you were at home toe-deep in 
your own private encyclopedias 
& maybe sitting by your window. i missed
your ankles. i missed your closet.
tragic ride home. goodbye beautiful life.
the car key like a talisman. you can 
come in & out of love with someone several times
just on the same highway. my life still fits
in back seats of cars i don't own.
turned the radio into a boy &
let his voice lie to me. i gave back
your books one by one without telling you.
in the morning, i dropped the car off
& walked home up Jericho Turnpike
that dreary monday. car horns squawked
like tired old birds. 

distortion 

let's run between cars on 5th avenue.
headlights like quarters to spend
on the afternoon heat machine.
once we werre racing on the new jersey turnpike
& we should have disintegrated but didn't.
sever the radio into equal fourths.
one for you one for me. car legs
warbling like song birds. 
i hung the stop light around my neck
to make you laugh. red comes
like a wide afternoon. you tell me
to read your lips in the honk
of the dead birds. all i can see
you saying is, "maybe maybe."
your teeth are doors i want to pull open.
we play tag in the tremoring city.
no one has eyes anymore. we are using
magnificent implants that only show
obejcts that smell pleasant.
there aren't enough trains so 
only glossy people come & go. 
in the rear view mirror our 
mothers are singing without sound.
the pigeons are in the trunks
we have to let them out. a simple lock
stands between me & a love poem.
staring into the car-blur i can almost see
an animation of a balloon leaving
a boy's hand. in the morning 
all i want is the right spoon.
at night, please give me someone
who worries about yellow as much as me.
the tv stopped asking questions
& now is just an eye piece. 
i perescope through lunch & catch
a glimpse of tomorrow 
i wasn't supposed to see yet.
i love ruining surpirses. do you miss
the sound of the can opening?
a stray dog bites a lamp post down.
none of us are flattened
but all of us are unrecognizable.
mirrors spit us back out & fold 
like pocketbooks. there's a wild
20$ bill in the bush or
is that just a kiss of weed? 
tell me, what is it you want to see
less clearly? i want to stand
on either side of the street 
as cars crackle & spit & try 
to say your name 
while you try to say mine. 

autobiographia literaria 

i wrote on only the first page of notebooks
then crumpled the inky sheet 
to stuff tangled letters into my mouth.
swallowed & laid on my back.
i looked up so hard i bore a hole
through the ceiling of my childhood bedroom.
watched the clouds go zoological. 
my teachers made paper airplanes
of my stories & sent them out the window.
in the school yard i took stick to dirt
& wrote my name over & other
just to cross it out. 
one line through the middle.
i lead seances in the "handicapped" stall 
of the elementary school bathroom.
made sigils on stickie notes.
pretended to be smoking as i breathed
out the sharp january cold. 
sharpie hearts & stars drawn
on the back of each hand. i wanted
to feel perminant. found a dead bird 
under the boy's tree & held 
a little funeral complete 
with dandelions. when i stared
at chapter books the language
turned to escalators-- each letter
sliding across the next. 
bought dollar store peanuts
to feed to park squirels
each of which i named & had
a back story for. louis left
the circus. eleanor used to be
a cobbler before she was tranformed
by a witch. watched the squirels 
crawl back into their hollows
worshipped salt & microwaves. 
licked my fingers & spoons
& plates. walked out in the yard
at night & kept secrets between
me & the moon. got obsessed 
with constellations & then wept 
when i couldn't find them.
if anyone called for me in that dark 
i would hide & say, 
"i am no one at all." 
burried my poems at the foot 
of the yard's big evergreen tree
next to goldfish graves & spare stone.
kissed them goodnight 
& promised to return in the morning
with new adjectives 
& ways to say "blue." 

the binding

i want to be your ram.
cut me into parcels of meat 
& pixel. the sky is a screen saver.
refresh me until i spin. 
my father used to take my down
to the creek & raise a butcher's knife
over my head. he told me it was 
a dove. i see birds as weapons.
the altar in my house gallops 
across the floor.
we wrestle for holiness 
in the midnight's simmer. 
i can tie myself up like 
a package or a promise. i make
a great sacrifice. i won't even
scream. the lord is typing 
in his study on the lead type-writer.
he's pounding out promises
& particulars the day to come.
we bought hand cuffs 
from the dollar store. grey plastic.
swallowed the keys & ran off
into the wild woods without hands.
my father wore binoculars 
around his neck to keep tabs 
on his livestock. a boy is a kind
of mosaic. the trees turning 
to cord & rope. rope tangling us.
us, the little pairs of legs.
often the sun is the biggest
betrayer, painting all your secrets
in light. father glimpses us
as we found hollows to store
our hooves in. called us back
with a push of a red button.
the siren was a girl twisted tight. 
he never kept the knives in the drawer,
he laid them out on display 
from smallest to largest. i wanted
to lay down between the knives.
i want to be your ram. i already know
where my body will come apart.
i'll show you were & how to dismantle
if you tell me i was a good animal
& i tried my best to plug in. 
kiss the static from my eyes.
i want to be your beautiful viral.
there's no such thing 
as sons. 

pillar of salt

i stood like a stop sign 
& watched the leaves turn static.
stopped eating any slices 
& took to prepparing for fires. 
the punishing god is my favorite
because he makes sense & acts
just like my father. 
in summer, i was a little girl 
barefoot in my television-watching.
the news is a kind of city.
bumper to bumper dreaming. a stop light
dangles around my neck. we used to
talk about the future 
like a vegetable-can on the shelf.
i pried the morning open with 
my teeth. scrolled past radiation dances 
& a mouthful of rubber. my car
went belly-up in the poison. 
my brothers merged into one.
i told myself to look at beautiful things
like nail polish jars & sticky notes.
the street flooded to the window.
my partner became a blue balloon.
everyone stopped believing 
in water. i should have dug a well.
i should have sewn a quilt
from single-socks. i should have
focused on my hands--inspected 
each crease & fold & found
the future teeming there but i looked
& looked & looked. i saw 
computer screen dazzle & phone mirage.
invented new kinds of burning.
i saw neighbors shed clothes & honk 
at the sun. i saw the trees
shave their legs & the year
tuck its chin to chest & rolled
far away from grasp. tasted 
the salt of my own skin. 
god commanded me "hold still
& look."  

father working 

we all take plates 
& pile them with meat: lamb, turkey,
alligator, moon, stirrup.
father in his hollow whittling
down the ache. all alone 
he does what he has to keep
all of us tip-toeing. brings the elbows 
to the end. swings his real axe 
at the head of every tuesday.
outside we gather what we can.
keep him fed like good sons.
kill earwigs & ethers. harvest
lightbulbs for their eyelashes. 
in the meantime, while father hunches,
practice our beards in the mirror
then shave them off so he knows
we aren't serious about being men. 
sweep his cicada shells
from the entrance. he lives
in a great dig. earth mouth-gaping.
we spit our spare teeth into the trash.
inspect each other's violets
for blight. winter is coming &
father will soon want more from us:
songs & lit candles & promises.
he will loom with his bottle-cap eyes
& arms out stretched as if 
wanting an embrace 
but really just saying 
"hand everything over." we prepare
baskets of glass jars
& stuffed animals. hear his fingers
crackle before he works
the earth's core. pulling & pressing
on the heat. finding lumps 
of delight & rolling them up
for later. the end times
are asking for our lips.
at night all the doors lock themselves
& we lay down like dolls
in the living room. father eats 
his way through the dark.
sometimes i wish i could be father.
i take a kitchen knife & consider
digging my own hole to crawl into.
i ask in my head for a sign
or a son but always 
talk myself out of it. 
instead, find another trinket
to deliver to him. a shoe.
a sliver. a basket of wild onions.
keep your eyes closed.
he's trying to watch the game. 

pick-up truck

let's cut down tree together
& divy up logs between us.
i'll take your neck if you take mine.
the fireplace is hungry 
for a lock of your hair so i stole it
& i hope that's okay. 
you smell like smoke & mint.
cradle is always widening.
will you rattle your ribs with me?
let's work together & check
for bats. who wants to be a farmer 
in their next life? i would like
to drive a red pick-up truck
& sing to bears in the backyard.
i would like to drive the truck
up a mountain with the bed full
of apples ready to spend them 
on the right moon. people would ask
to borrow my pick-up truck 
& i would always lend it to them.
i would tell them to drive 
as far as they could without stopping.
&, months later, they would arrvie
with the truck & a sack of feathers
to repay me (though i'd accept no payment).
truck & i growing old 
in a mountain town. i would keep
my manhood tucked inside 
a little leather notebook. 
taking it out only on rare nights
when i'd need my sturdy face
for scaring ghosts away 
from the edge of the woods. 
some of them would crawl, following me
for a ghost supper in the kitchen at midnight.
empty bowls & empty plates & empty forks.
each enjoying their favorite meal.
they'd praise my truck & dream 
of their own travels. i'd take
many night drives. yellow headlights
painting torsos gold. sleeping 
in the back bed & letting the stars 
bore holes in my skin 
until i was (thankfully) a ghost.
i want to take you far away from here.
we should eat spring onions
dug from dirt. boil some dead leaves
for supper. split a fork between us.
you can have the prongs & i'll
take the stem. engine sputters.
engine asks for a spoonful of sun
or kiss of a true love.
can you hear it all the way
in my next life? tell me, 
what's happening in yours.
do i hear rain or is that a school
of fish? cradle asking for 
another quarter. i'll pay this time. 

wedding

my cousins are getting married.
i want to emulate the glaciers:
be dramatic with my ceremonies.
melt in the most complete ways possible.
they are looking for a venue
& searching for the right bite 
of earth. a cake grows
in their bath tub. i everyday
& everymorning over & over.
with the same wifely spoon
i swallow a bowl of water.
a veil sprouts from her forehead
& in the mirror each morning
she snips it with garden shears.
tossing it in the bathrooms 
private trashcan. 
everyone i know is getting married.
engagement rings roll down main street.
children are catching them
& giving them to crushes & goldfish.
weddings by the creeks. weddings 
from the branches of birch trees.
weddings in the dead of night
with no witnesses. i find my own
in a snail shell uncoaxable. 
i whisper to the little moment 
in the hopes he'll unfurl 
& tell me something brief & beautiful.
i need a wedding this week
& another one to look forward to 
in the next few months. my cousins 
are younger than me. they have
a wedding registry. they have 
preferred fine china. they are asking
for sets of wine glasses. 
i turn the faucet & red wine
spills out. please, i don't want
to celebrate anything. not until. 
not until. i don't know what do
with my fingers. i wrap them
in twist-ties. put the snail shell
in a tupperware container 
to keep the wedding fresh for when
it's ready. once i had one.
glossy & short. a small service.
just me & the first snow in early december.
come back come back. wait for me.
my cousins kiss each other 
like goldfish. i sleep standing up. 

several examinations

i got an x-ray to look for my sadness.
there was no doctor or machine,
just me & a spool of radiation.
found three thumb tacs in my throat
& a migrating bottle cap but nothing else.
i bought a tunnel & a horseshoe 
& a pile of needles. i sold
a trapzee & a goldfish & a fishing rod.
next summer i am determined 
to drown in the ocean by accident
or at least sever a mountain in half.
they'll pull my body from the water
& perform a quick autopsy at which
they'll discover my sex.
i found my happiness in an envelop once.
i laughed so hard it turned into 
a pigeon & ran off. 
i said "please come back."
i'm sick of asking people
"how are you?" because i cannot begin
to begin. in it's place i'm suggesting 
asking, "what is horrifying you lately?"
i'm scared of driving my car
off a cliff but more specifically 
i'm horrified by the length of january. 
how do the pine trees do it? just keep
going & going & going. pressing each day
into a rigid needle. i'm more
of a dogwood. i found paw prints
in the snow & followed them
to a hole in the atmosphere. a little dog
perched there like my own private trinket.
he was scared too. i told him to go & come back
in a few hundred years when i'm no longer
worrying so much.
i'm not losing my mind yet. i'm just
leaving the month out to dry.
if i found it (my sadness) i don't know 
what i would do with it.
do i want it removed? made solid?
made shelve-able? yes. that's it.
i want my sadness made into 
a paper weight so next time the wind
tears a hole in the side of a room
we'll be held in place. then 
heavy as it as, i could at least
wrap a hand around it & say 
"this is where it lives." 
whoever decided sadness is blue
was wrong. sadness for me
is red & then sometimes indigo.
blue is a sleeping color.
it never wakes up. i never wake up.
gulls gather around my bed & say
"it's tomorrow again." i refuse.
next month i'll try again.
use the paperweight to break 
a neighbor-window. crawl inside a new life.
yes. again though, i'm asking the pine trees
"how should i?"