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. 

gold leaf diet

in the year of the gold leaf diet everyone's motto was
"be less." people the width of thread. we wove
into tapestries of hunger. jumped rope with 
& desires. i became a braid. you became a basket 
heavy with plums. you can come to adore even
the smallest of pleasures. warm water. a plate of nothing
but gold leaf. the television said, "live like a pharaoh." 
servants in between our ribs making clay 
to use for houses. have you ever realized you are
the river? mouth open, spilling crayfish into
open-armed lovers? i would roll the leaf & chew,
remembering the flavor of fat. olive oil. salt. 
metallic feather. the trees that grew the gold 
naked as travelers. then, that one night you woke me
& said, "let's be dangerous." my stomach was 
a pool of piranhas. we dug in the earth until
we found a sweet potato in the shape of an infant's face.
roasting it, the potato screamed & so we sewed 
the mouth shut. waited with waterway tongues 
as it cooled & devoured either half. 
the past fell away & we were nothing but children 
into the future of our golden city. sugar dancing 
between our eyes. you said, "we cannot tell anyone."
i said, "they will all know by looking at us."
joy is the heron. in the water & above it. 
stalking for another root. i asked you,
"should we tell them how sweet this was?"  

diary of a spoon thief

goodbye teeth. goodbye window.
i crawled out onto the roof with you
& we took turns chomping bites 
off each other's legs. you pointed to my face 
& told me all you saw was a dinner plate.
there was the last summer when 
i knew i didn't want to sleep next to you anymore.
your legs were dogs. your mouth was
a grotto of cave fish. i tried to free them
while you slept. i stuck my hands in
& captured thrashing beasts. then, alone,
in your parents' kitchen, i stole the spoons
one at a time. i buried some in the yard.
i swallowed others. then, one & only one
i kept for myself. i still have it & i use it
for witchcraft. it sticks, wax-laden, out of
my bowl of black salt. when i use it
i think of cups of espresso & the smell
of fried egg. there was a time when we feasted
on lobster. red shells. butter. ghosts.
that was the last time i ate meat. those creatures
telling me, "get out. get out." if you are 
ravenous enough to get free
you can dig with only a spoon. you can
cull the black eyes of crustaceans for a glimpse
of their other planet where no one has gender.
where love is not a game of who sleeps
closest to the cutting board. my old love,
let's not pretend you don't still search
for those spoons. i like to imagine you 
digging in the yard & finding one. then,
thinking of a night you put me 
in the closet & laughed until you turned
into a bird. beat your angry wings against 
every wall while i wept. i hope you
rebury the spoon & speak of it to no one. 

fur coat

you put on the dead staircase 
when we would go into the beast.
the city without a nose. opera masks 
fell from the sky. i told you i was 
a grandmother & you laughed & said
you were too. all our little children 
were the stoplights that made 
the neighborhood's choker. read poetry
to an empty bar. in the street everyone
was deciding to be an alley cat. everyone
was eating a handful of peanuts 
& calling it grace. you wrapped your
fur coat around your shoulders.
my beautiful animal, we should have 
gone home so much sooner. the night 
grew all the legs we said we didn't want.
centipede or street hound. the boys 
who put their teeth in their pockets 
in case a fist came to make keyboards
of their smiles. this was back when 
headphones still had cords. 
you took one bud & me the other.
put little men inside each seed 
& listened to them play their violins.
car sick in the rain slick street. take me home 
in your pocket. tell me what creature
we are stolen from & take me back there.
i crave a marsupial ending for this evening.
one where i eat my fill of bread 
& get to finally turn into a flashlight.
i forget if we kissed. if we did 
i hope it tasted like licorice. i hope the fur
purred & laughed. you took off your shoes
as if they were traitors. i searched 
my pockets for all the pieces of my face. 
one eye, still at the train station. 
i still have not gone back to get it.
a man bites into it like an apple. i see everything. 

fruit snacks

my grandfather kept a box 
above the fridge. i remember the house
smelled like soup & pickles & spice.
his hands shook slightly or else
i am conjuring a mismemory.
we ate the fruit of unfruit trees.
cicadas spit their seances into the august air.
i do not know if this is a real night
or one we both create in a re-making
of the past. history is a loom. 
he showed me how to plant
one of the false seeds on my tongue
& still grow a tree. i wish i had known
to ask him about sweetness.
about what fruit grew in the belly
of his home. how home can become
a limb we search for. shoveled oceans
worth of syrup. the gravel driveway.
wings he filled every single closet with.
there is a family story that on the day
the tornados ripped through lyons,
that he believed death was coming
for him. instead, he died 
in his sleep. i picture him,
mouth open, a little fruit tree 
growing there. birds come & roost.
i know the seeds live inside me. 
do they remember the nectar 
they are supposed to emulate 
or are they new bodies entirely?
memories of swallowed orchards.
my handful of false grapes. what language 
should i speak when i talk to him?
the tongue of almost oranges
or that of a root laying like a leg
in the backyard? 

bags of ice

my father bought home bags of ice
like newborns. cradled in the front seat
of his blue jeep. we would go
to greet the ice. watch as he broke 
the ice in by throwing it on to the pavement 
before pouring it into the blue chipped cooler.
summer was always for ritual.
watching the new sibling melt. seeing 
his body fill with brown bottles.
i used to wish i was a bag of ice. some kind
of release. at least at the end of the night
the ice was water & could be set free.
instead, i was a little moth flitting from
porch light to porch light. sitting
with my father & uncle as they smoked 
cigars & drank themselves into dizzy moons.
there would come a point when they would
turn into bullies. laugh at me & the dust
on my wings. banging my head 
against the glow. here i am, here i am
i would say. all the while, my new sibling
chilling their beverages. him, the favorite.
him, the perfect son. useful & brief.
inside the house i'd retire to watching
from the window. shower the smoke
from my skin. reach beneath my pillow
for a handful of my secret bubblegum.
deep in the night when i heard the house go silent.
only then would i go & witness 
the final dregs of the ice. i would go 
as a pilgrimage. cool night air.
i'd reach my hand in to the cooler
not minding the dirt of the bottles
& my father's hands. i would eat 
the half-melted ice. let it dissolve in my mouth.
a feast for an oldest child. the moths 
bought bells to ring. i put my finger
to my lips & begged them to hush. 
no one ever caught me. 

green boyfriend

don't get guilty with me
you know no one else is 
waiting on the banana house.
we live inside a mood. inside a dragon egg.
i turn on the television & worship
every form of sadness that creeps my way.
holy are the stale-food eaters. holy are
the boyfriends without any boyfriends.
we go into the alley to talk to the rats.
i'm told we should have a strategy
but we end up talking in circles 
about capitalism & utopian futures.
this is balm we need. the rats turn into 
our dad's shoes. our shoes turn into 
our dad's shoes. i do not want to 
go to sleep without feeding the clouds.
their stomachs growl from hunger. 
hear me out, if enough of us all stand up
& decide we don't believe in money
then we'll be free. then we'll chew nothing
but turkish delight. then we'll have 
a ferris wheel full of passengers 
who just want to point out to their lover,
"do you see that roof? that is where
i used to be a boyfriend." pickles at the back
of the fridge are singing about revolution.
i go & tighten the lid. no one is out 
in the snow laden street. there are 
just deer searching for their dad's shoes.
there are just birds pretending 
they are women & women pretending
they are birds. then, there's me.
my gender is boyfriend & my boyfriend 
is a coat closet that smells like must 
& fever. let's not pretend we have 
more time than we really do. 
the bomb has feathers & friends.
it is going to turn us all into ghosts.
the rats will then rule the once-green world. 
they will tell stories about boyfriends.
"did you know we used to 
love each other in a way that made 
weeds grow wild & untamable?"