bad history 

i used to be able to list all the presidents
of the united states.
we memorized it for 
ap us history class. my memory was not
in order. instead, it was 
a patchwork. dipping back & forth
until the march was complete.
the names became hopscotch squares.
pebbles cast into their mouths.
a man with hair like a dead bird.
another one with pickled eyes. set jaw.
dull skin & tombstone teeth. 
in the classroom their portraits 
looked down on us disapprovingly. 
high schoolers with lots of big ugly dreams. 
horrible men are almost never depicted 
with their hands where you can see them.
instead, they wiggle their fingers in the dark.
i lost my memory of the president's names
one by one. first the 1800s presidents 
& then on into the now. i do not forget 
what they did though. their wars & their hungers
& their genocides & their blazing white house.
when my grandmother
was dying they asked her often
if she knew who the president was
as a way to test how much she still remembered.
she always got it right up until
the last weeks. i hope to one day too
be emptied of their names. to say,
"i do not know but there is a valley 
full of bones to tend." when i was finished the list,
i would look at it & marvel at my work. 
the outline of a knife museum. & still somehow
none of them are dead. 

recreational arguments before & after the sunrise

you talk to me in grubs.
i love you even when the walls rot
& peel like old cattails mucky from rot. 
we are driving & the windows are covered
with butter. i am crying & the sky rain
is so warm that i mistake it for a shower.
buy a bottle of shampoo & lather us wild.
everything about the body could
also be used to talk about clouds.
cloud teeth. cloud religion. cloud envy. 
once you bit me & said it was because
i made you do it. the bite got infected.
i become a werewolf but i do not show you.
argue instead with my reflection in
a bottle of sparkling beaks. 
i prefer to keep my monstrosity to myself 
these days. there is not enough storage
on my phone to hold the pictures of the life
i thought i wanted. tied down like a runaway tree,
we watch a movie & it plays backwards. neither 
of us stop it. instead, practice our new tongue. 
i learn to make shrines to my words.
to take bites out of the inside 
of fruit, leaving the flesh intact. 
we are sitting in a parking lot when 
one of my birds falls out. you help me 
put it back into place. i tell you i am sorry.
that that wasn't me. i am left though wondering
who we are outside of our open mouths. 
when you fall asleep before me, i take myself
to the gas station to argue with 
the color of the neon. pink. too pink
for a world as heavy as this. 



 

nail in the coffin

i have an obsession with 
headstone makers. how they spent
all their days etching the names
of the dead. one in 1700s new england
whose name i can't remember
crafted a skull that then got passed down
to his apprentice. all the stones have them.
the dead on top of the dead. i wish there were
still apprentices. still little morsels
to suck on. old nails are square. new nails
are round. in the backyard of my parents house
i searched for square nails. i never found any
but i did discover shards of glass. the glass
was not old. instead, they were probably
my grandfather's bottles. he died & turned
into a nail. life is a treasure hunt. no map. the dead rising
from the sea. i think i would have done well
as an artisan. i don't have the patience these days
because my brain is a bowl of cauliflower
but back then in the dead people times i think
i could have carved every day. could have
become intimate with the tools. i am trying
to think of what my downfall was. where i went
so wrong. why my spirit decided that i should
arrive at the time of drones & plastic wrappers.
i reject the idea that any of us are here 
for some heroic reason. i think at most i was put here
by the soil to be a headstone carver. to find the skull 
& perfect it. there is always a need for
more dead inside the dead. no ending is complete.
even the headstones are licked by rain. fade until
the name are whispered in the stone. 
i take the nails out of coffins. all of them square.
i build a house at the end of this world
with one foot in the next. 

tour guide

i meet a tour guide in the middle 
of the night. she has eyes made of blackberries.
i pick them & the moon shrinks 
to the size of a dime. the dime does not have
a colonizer on it. instead, there are
abundant crows. the crows say, "never spend us."
my partner has been playing on the stock market. 
i don't believe there is a way out. he says,
"this is our savings." i have not been able
to save money for years. instead, i scramble
on all fours away from catastrophes. 
sometimes i understand why there are billboards.
other times i think, "the world could be anything,
why do we have this?" the tour guide 
is gentle. her eyes grow back. i do not tell
anyone else about her. it is not romantic.
it is divine. i want a god so bad. i want a savings
so bad. not the money but the ability to 
stand up & become another country. to kiss
the feet of mountains. there's a thin white lady
who makes fairly good yoga videos 
so i watch them. she travels the world. 
in one video she is on a mountain in peru
which i will probably never make it to. the tour guide
says, "the world holds you." i am trying
to believe that. there is a bird 
who visit me out my windows while i type 
hungers into little digital boxes. i imagine them
like shoe boxes in a huge mismanaged closet. 
the bird has a heart the size of one blackberry bead.
i bead her earrings. she does not come back.
i hope she tells stories about me. the tour guide 
tells me i could easily be a tour guide if 
i really wanted to. i don't know if i believe her.
when i open my mouth, needles spill out.
i sew myself into bad dreams. my partner invests
in bmw. invests in a medical company trying
to craft electronic lungs. the dime crows leave
to forage elsewhere. sometimes, on a moonless night,
i will hold the coin up just to hear the wind
blow through it. 

firehouse simulation

i prepped for fire. i craved something
to survive. in fourth grade, the fire company
brought a fake house to fill with smoke.
we went two at a time, crawling on
our stomachs to wriggle out of the door.
the smoke smelled almost sweet. i was paired
with a boy i was afraid of. i got out & left him.
the fireman scolded me for leaving
him behind. at home i began to see fire everywhere.
i begged my mom to buy a ladder so that
i could crawl out my window. we bought
stickers that said, "two adults, two children inside."
i filled a bowl with water & carried it to my room.
a precaution in case fire found me. something
to put it out. the simulation house started
following me. would see it in the drive way.
i would wake up inside. the walls, smaller than
any house i'd ever been inside of. the world was
just starting to become more terrifying.
i became aware of my hands & my bones. my stomach
& the dirt under my fingernails. there were boys
who took to making a game of me. face flushed.
face on fire. i would wet my hair in the morning
to keep the flames from spreading. at church i saw
fire above all the apostles' heads. how did
they keep it contained? my uncle told me
an old story about how if you hear dogs barking
in the middle of the night that there will be
a fire. i would stay up, worried i might miss the harbinger.
i think i was always meant to be a herald. 
maybe that is thinking too much of myself. i try
my best to prepare. smoke under my skin. 
the fire in my core, burning like a swallowed house. 
up the street, the fire trucks opened their mouths
as wide as they could. i sometimes feared
they were coming for me. 

raffle ticket

i trade a tooth for a raffle ticket.
it is the year that the birds stop birding
& return to the ground to hide.
i get a shovel & dig, hoping to reunite
with the fairy people beneath the soil.
god they must have it so good down there
with so many centuries of quiet. 
i go to a party where the only food
is raffle tickets. someone whispers to me,
"i had a cousin who won." i do not know
anymore if i want to win. at night
on the red television, they call out a number
& someone weeps. someone hugs their loved ones.
i do not know what happens. no one knows
what happens. we are assured that it is not death
or even a rebirth. that it is some mythical
third dawn that is ready
to make us dazzling & white. sometimes i do not
even watch. somedays i do not even
have a raffle ticket. instead, if i am alone
i look at my palms & remember how
in elementary school my friend read my palm
not like a raffle ticket number but like
a book. he said i would have two great loves
& maybe a child. i did not. it was still 
comforting to have someone else
hold my hand. our warmth. the basketball hoops. 
i wish we still used raffle tickets for church fundraisers
& bingo halls. i want a cellophane veil.
i want a movie night in a box. instead, i have
the windows full like stained glass. the pictures
that come & freeze frame are always terrors.
mysteries grow. become religions. i took out
the tooth with my bare hands. a hunger
for a chance. my first boyfriend
buying lottery tickets & scratching them off
in the gas station parking lot. even that was
more dignified. i want a punch bowl to sleep in.
i want the earth to open & for the fairy to say,
"yes, come & sleep here." the party ends
& i do not go home. the host asks if i need
a place to go & i say i do not. i sit outside.
the streetlamps stare. the moon has an advertisement
projected across his face. it says,
"there is always a chance."  

conflict avoidance 101

if there is a hole in the sun,
close one eye. once when i was
a girl i found my uncle like a goldfish
belly-up on the stairs. i bathed him
because no one else was awake. he drinks
like a goldfish, aimless & light bulb-eyed. 
he does not remember. neither do i.
in my family we don't talk
about things like this. they become 
trapeze wires in the house. sometimes
i use them to dry my clothes. 
sometimes i write a poem & that is as close
as i get to telling anyone the truth.
my father chased me once with 
a rattlesnake or was it a knife or was it
just a toy? memories crunch under my feet
like dead leaves. i was taught that
to love is to forget what they did. 
in some ways this has been easier. if you
leave a memory alone long enough 
you will start to question if it was real.
until one day over coffee you & your brother
will remember a night when 
all the windows folded in & the house
was so dark. we found each other. 
turned on a night light. saw the ceiling
crawling & shut the light off. better to
pretend there was nothing wrong
& to stare. in the morning the windows
returned or did we cut them open?

for jolene 

when you think "taste"
what comes into your mind?
is it the dandelions i fed you
on the hill above the well?
the salt block in the yard? a mother 
memory of sweet ribbons 
in the dark? maybe our fingers close
to your nose? i will always think 
of us in the summer before
the metal folding chairs were crushed
& rusted. when we could still hold you
as we sat in them. when we marveled
at your softness & curiosity.
do you remember how the yard 
once had grass? how that first winter 
i brought you all blankets, scared
that the wind was too harsh?
if you had one more secret to give me
what would it be? i want to know
how the stars look when 
we turned the back porch light off. 
maybe if you could tell me that.
i want to jar your bleat & put it
in the cupboard next to the water-glassed eggs
& the walnuts. i cannot believe how high
you could leap. in the first days that you were here
i worried i would wake up
to find you on the roof. i did not but 
once i did find you on top
of the garbage can. i picked you up,
ending your game. i regret only 
not fighting off the boys more 
to make sure you got your piece 
of banana peel. i regret only 
not holding you longer when you
were smaller. i regret only
that the land asks for our beloveds back
& that why is always the wrong question. 
keep me where you go. 

apple tree

i saw the ghost of the apple tree
wearing a purple dress on the side
of the road. she told me she was
getting married. aren't we all getting married?
i don't want to be a turtle anymore.
i would like to have long legs 
& a keyhole to peer through.
the apple tree used to spit her face
in the neighbors' yard. they never
picked all the fruit. instead, the animals came.
had feasts. i always wanted to join them
in my own purple dress. i don't own
the dress anymore. who knows 
where it ended up. i used to be softer. 
i wish i was softer. instead i am bound by
laws about who owns the land. property lines.
a wooden fence. animals have always been
the best anarchist teachers. climb the trees.
eat the berries. shit on the roof. care for
the weak. sleep in the guts of an old tree.
i ask the apple tree why she stopped 
bearing fruit. she tells me that it was
too lonely. to create is always lonely.
even the sharing, like little deaths
in the mouths of those you love.
i think it would be way too proud
for me to claim to be an apple tree like her.
maybe i am a knuckle tree or an eyelash tree.
something less sweet & vital. i admit 
to the apple tree that once one of 
her fruit rolled close enough
to the side of the road that i was able to
snatch it up. i ate it right away. juice on 
my hands. all apples are tethers. all poems
then too. the purple dress hanging on the mailbox.
naked, the tree runs off. i tell her i am always here
if she wants to be devoured again.  

life coach 

i call the blender museum. they have
advice for me. i need to cut my life up
into drinkable pieces. guava. mango. yogurt.
someone walks back & forth up the road
& i go to see what they're all about. they hand me
a little business card & say, "i am a life coach."
i run away as fast as i can. i stay away from coaches
especially the life variety. i have a hard enough time
trying to swallow it all by myself. they are
everywhere. i collect the business cards
like trading cards. love. health. wealth.
one life coach says she just found god again.
i think "again?" i am glad i am not someone
who worries about the afterlife. instead i am worried
about bananas & how there used to be 
a different breed of banana that isn't here anymore.
then i am freaking out about species loss. what flavors 
have bombs eaten? what fingers? 
once when we were still together we were in a movie theater
& a life coach tapped me on the shoulder.
it was getting to the good part. i asked, "what do you want?"
she said, "the first session is free." i was
so desperate to be heard that i almost 
took her up on it. instead, you were jealous 
& ended up eating the business card. i was relieved.
a real exorcism is when you unburden someone you love
from themselves. my own desire to not disapoint. 
is it because i am an eldest child? is it because 
when i was younger i could talk to bees? 
still, sometimes that movie theater life coach 
came to the window. i would find her breath-print 
in the morning. sometimes, because i am sick,
i considered leaving the window open at night
to see if she would just come inside & fix me.
i do not want to put in the work. the plane you left on
was full of life coaches. then, too, the grocery store
i shopped in alone. aisles of life coaches.
the life coach in the woods & the life coach 
knitting baby hats on the bench. some people fear failure.
i fear becoming a life coach. that one day i will
find myself handing out business cards to pigeons. 
i know you are not supposed to feed the ghosts 
but i do often. i pluck out a few strands of hair.
one of the ghosts explains, "i am a death coach."
the horrors persist. the winter persists.
i get an add on instagram for becoming a certified 
life coach. i weep. i burry the phone. you are back.
you have never left. you are a life coach & you smile
like oatmeal. i say, "i want to sleep until i am a bird."
you say, "why do you hold your dreams by
the scruff of their neck?"