latin mass

i prefer not know what god is saying.
my father talks longing about latin mass.
about being a morning altar boy
& pouring the first rays of light
from a cruet. sipping communion wine
in the sacristy all alone. i used to not understand this.
why would you want to worship 
without language? he did not speak latin
nor did most people in the congregation. 
in the church i grew up in
the priest was an ice hook of a man.
mass was said in english.
he was quiet. coughed often. spoke about
the essential differences between man 
& woman & sometimes about peace
& sometimes about greed. i learned little
from his words. i am still most curious
about his life. the rectory. what were his
holiday dinners? when he was sick 
did anyone come by his side
& let him feel soft & small? i have a hard time
believing there is anything god could say
to defend himself anyway. 
my phone screen is a portal
to all his burning people.
ants arrive to strip the remains. 
if this god could speak it would have to be
in a dead language. i find there are
several translations for "i'm sorry"
in latin. i do not know the differences.
doleo & aegre fero & paenitet me.
which one would this god say to us?
i do not want to go to mass. i want to go
to confession. now, let me speak my 
oldest tongue. no priest though,
just me & this ancient mouth. 
what are our rituals to you? our worship?
what will you do to repay us? 

mirage boy

gender is the world of almost.
let's almost fall in lust. let's almost
make palindromes with the lights on.
i once found a skeleton 
in the back yard. i thought it was
a tiny boy but instead my father
told me it was just a chicken. 
the chicken whispered, "i am a boy."
how are we supposed to trust
what the world tells us we are 
when we know it is wrong about 
so much? gender is 
that unearned trust. most days
only the spiders know who i am.
they tell each other, "that is a traitor."
don't get me wrong, i want to be liked.
dear god, i would do anything
to be liked. eaten with a tuning fork.
threaded through the eye 
of a chicken skull. get rid of the glass.
get rid of a mirror. live off nothing
but mirages of animals. the flesh
& the fury. come & get me.
i am the grape vine's blinking eye.
i no longer know if i want a gender.
instead, i think i want a lake
to sink my troubles in. a harvest ground
where no one can tell me what i look like.
instead, i'll cherry tree my self 
into a story about a terrible nation.
a gender is never an idea. it is a physical place
where either you are the mirage boy
or you are the wheel barrow
full of broken stained glass windows. 

i'm jealous of poets who use real people's names in their poems

my "you" is a pie crust & sometimes
your body that day when we were both pigeons. 
do not try to tell me the truth is easy. 
sometimes when i say "father" i mean
"lover." sometimes when i say "stop sign"
i mean "crush." but every time i say "broom"
i mean "father." he held it over my head
& then said, "i'm so sorry." that was more
than i meant to say. i prefer to think 
of us as sting rays at the aquarium. i prefer
to pretend we are a colony of clovers just trying to
talk to the sun enough to survive to the next day.
under foot. under hoof. the metaphor 
is a place you go when the world has
too much to say. i used to name you 
in my poetry. i used to say [                  ]
as if we were gods. you loved to claim me.
i felt like earth. like soil. you made me swallow
peach pits & wept when there was no
apricot tree for you to sit beneath.
i am talking about admitting to 
how much i loved the honeysuckle
that grew along the banks of the creek.
but i'm talking about you & never the honeysuckle.
tell me you remember yourself 
in my metaphor? i want to know
you felt yourself become a bite of nectar too.
then, my "you" is a dart board.
is myself. looking down a street of stained glass.
come & get me. come & get me.
i want everything that you have. 

2 mirrors

when i lived alone
shaving my head was like communion.
the apartment smelled of fried eggs 
despite the fact i'd never cooked
a single one. for the first month
or so i didn't have a pan. instead,
i had one holy plate that entered
& exited the microwave. it was plastic
& light. started to bear the stains
of my rituals. gashes of salsa & beans.
two forks. three spoons
& the green mug. you can be so alone
you start to see all of your fractures.
you think you are one human 
& then there is the self who begs
to walk the streets of your town at night.
the other self who looks at big houses
& craves to be a whole family.
the softest self who could sleep 
the whole day away. in the bathroom
i strategically positioned two mirrors
so that i could see the back of my head.
the art of getting an even shave.
i knew i had to do it my self after
i went to a barber & he asked,
"what made you move here?"
i didn't have a good answer
for him or myself. i fumbled with 
jelly bean words. i said the only
truth i could find. "it is beautiful here."
holding the clippers steady 
& tracing line after line. watching
the hair fall to the floor. coming apart
like a chorus. one & all. the mirror
i could look into, face-forward 
& the mirror revealing me from behind.
then, afterward, the elation of a hot shower. 
steam & skin. all of my ghosts
wearing their long hair & short hair 
& half-shaven heads. i curled up
afterwards on the floor towel 
i called my sofa. put one of the three spoons
in my mouth. ate ice cream in the quiet dark. 

on noticing all the walls in my apartment are white

have you ever given your bones
to a stranger? i met my landlord once.
him & his wife stood in the living room
while families scurried around his house.
we were all hungry. one girl said,
"you could sleep here," to her daughter.
a man touched the wall & left a soft smudge
with his dirt veiled hands. was he working
in a garden? taking apart the guts of a truck?
when we moved in the smudge was still there.
finding rice in the kitchen drawers
from the last owner. ant traps. a hole
where a landline would go. the houses
on delaware street talk to one another.
shoulder to shoulder. they discuss
match boxes & the wind-blown garbage 
that collects in the rocks by trout creek. 
i tell this house that is my house
& also not & never my house that 
if i were allowed to, i would paint
the walls a light purple. i would get down
on my knees. i do not wash away
the hand print of the man. sometimes
he lives here too. have you ever given
your bones to a stranger? all the sentences
where i tell friends, "my house" & 
"my home." why is this not my house,
my home? not in the sense of blood 
& property but in the sense that 
no one should own the rivers. in the sense that
in the dead of night i should be able
to wake up & paint the walls lavender.
laugh with the ghosts. find the man 
standing there, his face a flower. 
invite him inside & talk about all the walls
that have surrounded us. all the places
we have called home that have not been. 

window affliction 

whenever i try to take a video
of myself there is a new person watching.
i crawled inside this house because it only had
one window. then in the morning
there was two. by nighttime, three.
windows procreating like rabbits.
windows winking at strangers & saying,
"come & look at this dragon." at first
they were all the same shape. then,
windows came in circles. portals. octagons 
& triangles. all the alphabet of light.
sun & then sardine-belly moon.
strangers peer inside. frantic. i run
from one side of the house to the other.
i cover the windows with everything i have.
towels & papers & old t-shirts. just as
one is covered another arrives, blinking 
itself open. when did you realize you were
living inside a beast's skull? i never know
just how much i want to be witnessed.
i have to admit there are moments
when i see someone watching me
through one of the windows & i feel
like a god or at least an idol. i feel
made of precious. like they might build
an altar to my bones. what are they taking?
what am i handing over. a vision is just
a breathing photograph. save that thought
of me, putting on my tulip clothes.
turning into a bulb mother. enough 
with the light. enough with the mailmen.
if you want to watch, watch. know though
that this is contagious. if you have one window.
you might wake up with two. you might
discover there are deer living in your yard.
they have a television & they like to watch
America's Next Top Model. i warned you.
there are not enough curtains for this life.
you can doorbell me. i'll always let you
be part of the movie. 

little free library

i watch my neighbor fill 
the little free library with bibles.
he pulls each previous book resident 
from its shelter. puts them
into a coffin he is carrying on his back.
in a country of squirrels 
i do not mean to be a prophet. i always
seem to witness these fissure moments.
i think about what it would look like
to stop him. the box 
a little word stomach.
just a week ago it snowed 
as much as i've seen in my whole life.
i imagine my neighbor 
cultivating his flock of bibles.
caressing their heads like children.
splaying them open & begging them
to speak. he does not have children
or else they are gone. his wife & him
sometimes sit on the porch
& stare down like vultures. i want know
what he thinks this book says.
does he believe it will save us? does he
believer it gave us the cities-worth of snow?
does he picture strangers 
coming to feast on the pages? becoming
disciples. i am a follower 
of only the birds. the ones who,
somehow, find places to hide
when it is deadly winter. i go out
to the box when he is done. 
imagine the little free library
full of birds, crows & chickadees &
one ripe cardinal. i take one bible.
open it & speak into the pages. 
i say, "fly away" & the words turn into ants.
march into the surrounding woods.
i do not know where he took
the other books. but i am sure
he buried them. i hope he said final words.
i hope they screamed at him
or else each turned into bibles
in the dirt. whose tongue to you sleep on?
i wake up sometimes inside 
the little free library. the size of a thumb. 
turn a page. when i open the bible 
they are always blank. i write poems there
about the birds. about the snow. 

bees

i can't always tell bees apart from grandmothers.
my grandmother held out an egg
& tried to cleanse the bees from me.
instead, the egg hatched into a raven.
after, we never spoke of that night on the floor
of her apartment. i drank milk from the cat's bowl.
stood outside by the broken fountain 
& chased every bee i could find. i found my self
only able to speak their language. 
i have woken up in hives. i have woken up
& forgotten that i do not have a ceiling.
i have woken up without any feathers.
a mouthful of bees. my grandmother 
was allergic. she would run from bees.
she whispered in my ear, "i know you are
a bee waiting to get me." i shook my head.
but i also knew the thrum in my stomach.
the hives that always grew in me.
paper city. paper wings. i wanted to have
clean bones for her. she said, 
"i have survived more bees than you."
i wept. i didn't understand why i had
to be a child. why couldn't i just
be a colony in a tree so deep in the woods
that every gust of wind was a grandmother.
in the morning the moon was still watching.
sipping milk from the day's bowl.
i asked her "what can i do to never 
bring bees here again?" i wanted her love.
i wanted her blood. a promise that we were
from the same gushing river. she shook her head.
she said she did not know what i was 
talking about. the raven perched 
on her head. no one else could see it.
my mother asked how i liked my day
with my grandmother & i told her
as little as possible. embarrassed by 
my insects. my honey. the sweetness
spilling from every wound. the bees spoke then
in a voice only i could hear.
"what if you are not one of them?" 

fall (apart)

we spent all night eating buttons
& telling each other "you look fine."
have you ever been in a state
of total panic but
like a rabbit
you stand still & can only listen to
your pocket watch heart?
i have & there was a microwave sound
going as if i was reheating 
my organs one at a time.
have you been a slice of deli meat?
petals of cow. petals of pig.
we are all the meat flower. unless of course
you are vegan & then you are
searching always for the old taste
of milk & butter. i believe all animals
have a seam we can find 
& pull & watch them come apart.
i have done this to others.
limbs in a piles. girls in a locker room
& the neighbor man without an eye,
they did this back to me. they kept the thread
to floss their teeth.
do not let anyone fool you.
you do not need to come apart
in order to fit the leaves 
inside you. you do not need 
to kill the bird for more buttons.
they are everywhere or so i am told.
i think some people take off their arms
for fun. for us though
we take them off to use as oars.
the river is full of whales.
if unfurled they would be 
a field of sofas. come, let's numb
the nerves. let's watch some reality tv.
some commercial salad. 
buy a ripe plantain. fry 
& eat it with our fingers 
fresh from the pan. 

bruise feast

the first time i fell as a plum
you told me you would plant
the pit in the deepest part
of your closet. i searched for it
every time you turned me into a chickadee.
a handful of hair. little horse self
pulling a carriage of your shoes.
the bruises always tasted like caramel.
sweet in the autumn ankles.
i was an expert at convincing myself
that love was a tunnel of knives.
goodbye midnight. goodbye grease.
a roasted fish. your father's swimming eyes.
today i know there is a plum tree somewhere
in your guts. it is all mine. when you try
to eat the fruit it makes you sick.
leaves you with the same bruises 
you left me only they are rancid & look
like new continents. so, you have
to watch the plum tree. pretend it is not
growing from your eye socket. lie to
every new lover, saying,
"this is just a history." my darling, if i 
remember anything about us it is that
you always finish your plate. i am here
in a castle of sugar. i am here eating
my own plums. every new pit
a rosary bead. i pray to the oldest gods
that you think of me & your stomach
turns into salamanders. you lay awake
coughing up pits. one after another.
the closet, verdant & holy. that you still
find my feathers on your clothes.
revenge is a spell no one is ever really 
too good for. do not tell me you don't dream
of seeing the blossoms bursting
from the mouth of the person who buried you.
you can say whatever you want. 
everyone can see exactly what grew.