jupiter forecast 

someone i love asks how i will feed myself
without a pig. i tell them i am skilled 
at sacrifice. once, i lived out of the carcass
of a whale. i crawled to the bottom of the ocean
each night with only a dinner plate
& a fork. ate canned beans & dreamed 
a television in my head. no one can know
the depths of our private loneliness. here is where
i keep my planet. it is rock candy & ready.
the truth is there is some uncertainty 
to living at the end of the world. but hasn't everyone
always lived at the end of the world?
the coming precipice might not be a destination
but what it means to crawl 
from bed & see the sun. i go to the crows
for advice since they know more 
than most. they advise me to not live extravagantly.
i admit, "but that is my gender." they laugh
& say, "then steal whatever you can 
from the factory. trinkets & guns & glitter."
"i do not want guns," i tell them but they fly
away & do not tell me any more. i till the earth.
i plant my teeth. move on to fingers. have you
ever tried planting without hands? 
it is not as terrible as it might seem. 
waiting in the fresh earth & trying to not pray.
asking whatever beings sit beneath the surface,
"can you give me something delicious?"

frostbite

the morning had no tongue or breath.
relearning how to talk to trees
i stumbled with a pocket of girlhood.
the flesh becomes a playground. 
all the boys come with fireworks 
in their eyes. a pepper spray birthday. 
turning seventeen inside a bomb.
outside, everyone is dying. outside
everyone is living on roots. carrots 
& rusted pipes & the legs of our grandfathers.
you do not know you skin is dying
until it is too late. burning. a race inside
blood. bone turned into sculpture. 
moving the limb & saying, "alive
alive." nothing. on the other side
of numb is an electric fence. the cows 
wear sweaters. i shake my body 
trying to find my heart. it is like
panning for gold. i wait too long. 
inside the barn by a space heater's
red glowing prophecy. the other farm hand says,
"we have to get you inside." i see the plum-colored skin.
the oceans come to sing there. dead dolphins 
& a fishman without a face. some doesn't return.
turns into catacombs. a hymn 
to my former body. the cold is not
an absence of gender but a machine of it.
instead of man and woman i purpose
helpless and whole. i was neither. 

disco ball migration

we all put on our sunglasses to stay alive. 
the glint & guts were loud as fire ants.
no one wanted to dance anymore but
the jubilation was mandated. you must
smile for the big cheeseburger. you must
shake your body like a bell. a priest blessed
the teeth of new disciples. we were too young
to know that this was it. this was where
you lose your voice. captured in 
a traveling salesperson's brief case. walking
he would wait years to put his ear 
to the leather & hear our hesitation. our fears
of growing up inside a polluted snow globe.
when i could no longer breathe i turned
into a jump rope. the trees turned into
telephone poles straining to hold up
the sky. this was years ago now. it is funny
how the fires can become normal. once,
an alarm town & now walking to grocery store
i think to myself, "another another another."
the smoothening edges of a catastrophe.
again, the lights spill from the slit throat
of the sky. come all the pigs & pillow rocks.
stoning a man in the street outside my window.
i used to think i could open my arms wide
& catch the metal as it came. instead, now,
i become the prayer keeper. a coin under
my tongue. visiting the dead like statues. 
do not worry about anything. there is
a suggestion box at the end of the world.
there, i go. cut off my hand. feed it to the lips. 
 

ammonite 

do you remember not having a skull?
everything rung like saltwater taffy.
you did not have to wake up
like a fried fish stick. instead, we rose
as bottles from the dirt. we held
our televisions close to the chest.
no one had dollar signs in their teeth.
when we opened our mouths
it was only for nectar. visa gift cards
in the daffodils. a plastic bag
to stuff the contents of a frenzy. 
i stand on a street corner in the city
& wonder how my bones talk to one another.
if they say, "lets go back to being
ocean bodies" or if they are just 
the knot work of my fears. i would like
to be a cohesive being. instead, i think
i am most likely a selkie in the wrong shell.
a morsel of pixels conjured to talk 
about lips. the stoplights tell a hymn 
of fruitless movement. a shop door 
cracks a seam in realness. i keep
a can opener in my purse in case
i have to find a way out of this life
& back into the primordial echo. 
radio show about ammonites
where they discuss jesus. they say,
"everything is real to the new species 
if you say it with enough billions."
dead birds piled to make a church.
i consider walking backwards all day.
i arrive at a corner store. buying 
a diet soda & drinking it 
on the same street corner where 
god kicked a tin can into my face.
we might never get back to that headless bliss.
i close my eyes. eat the artificial angel. 
become the glistening of an ancient skeleton. 

salt bicycle

there is a forecast of rabbit rain.
we were all children in the wild 
shoulders of august. 
the afternoon rang every bell
it could find. you were the boy prophet
& i was the girl prophet
at least for that night. spent the first
part of the day gazing into the oracle
which spat out every kind of sadness.
curtains drawn. your father had
just died three weeks before
& we had not talked about it since.
i had stopped letting myself eat.
discovered the horrifying glory
of disappearance. my body a hallway maker.
we took turns taking bites
out of mealy ghost apples. a video game
knocked on the windows. i told you,
"let's go & be kingdoms." pedaling
down the sacrifice hill. your hair
turning into butterscotch.
i considered you my corn husk. 
my cantaloupe speaker. spitting
cherry seeds at the sun. of course
i could feel it was going to rain 
in my bones & blood but i let us go
anyway to the edge of the world
on bicycles made of salt.
overlooking the highway. 
downpour. earth-shattering.
the bicycles dissolving
in the deluge. nothing but pickle tongue. 
nothing but tuning forks. moon. 
"how are we going to get home?"
you asked. all i could think was
"we are not going home." it was like
the whole town fell away behind us. 

golf course

how do you spit the factory green?
i take a ride into an alternative natural
where no one knows 
the names of flowers.
instead, we go plastic 
as far as plastic will go. name a boy
after ourselves. cover all our tattoos
& pretend our skin is blameless.
in the forest once there was 
a god. he let the woodpecker
drill a hole in his head to spill nectar.
this is where we have nothing left to drink 
but our own horseshoes. 
wearing the right kind of clothing.
white & pressed. 
the right kind of face. 
white & pressed. 
a mirror with antelope legs.
do you go carnivorous 
in the open? tell me, is there
anything left of the wild? we all point
to a little tree with a choke collar.
it barks, pleading for jupiter to answer.
good boy. by which i mean 
terrible terrible boy. there is a conference 
coming to my despair. money 
to be made off the slope 
of my favorite hill. dig a hole
& spend the rest of time searching again
for that fissure. i put the golf ball
in my mouth. wait for you
to pull it out with your
leather gloved fingers. 

false alarm

a tree of sirens grows in the yard.
i go out each morning to tend it.
flashing lights & screams.
i don't know how
it doesn't wake you up.
once, we grew lemons 
but inside each fruit we found a tooth.
you said, "let's bury them"
& so we did. now mouths open
if you are not careful. ankles bitten.
tripping in the crab grass.
i love the taste of a siren. it fills
your mouth with ache & running.
i haven't run in years. my body 
doesn't let me. ankles twist 
& turn into licorice. but, i can 
feel anything in a bite of cherry.
syrup drips down my arms.
i don't want you to have to see the tree.
it's so bright & loud & angry.
the truth is that the tree grows 
wherever i do. in the alley way
of the house in new york.
sleeping in the wedny's parking lot
in my oldsmobile. there the sirens were.
i told them, "i already know
everything to be scared of."
the tree always laughs & says,
"but did you think of the war.
but did you remember that once
everyone you knew 
turned orange & silent?"
& more & more fears until
we are both wailing & i am climbing
every single branch trying
to pluck the fruit. 

tough it out

putting a fist into the moon's belly,
i thrash like the eel i am.
we had no use for privacy 
not when everyone was 
lighting their backs on fire.
all the dads called me "writhe"
for how i responded to the iron.
brightness is so often 
associated with good 
but when i see a glow
all i can think is, "where will i hide?"
mid day sun. why did being a man
feel like such a process of loss?
shed the feather & the ripe apple.
the trees had on their victory faces.
a staircase is just a staircase
if your legs aren't wool & willow. 
i prefer to crawl on all fours
when i encounter a stone.
the stone saying, "don't be
such a pillowcase."
i breathe through a straw
& i lie & say, "i am alright.
i can do this." this has cryptic blue eyes.
spits on my shoes. i turn my knees
into stomachs. eat as much as i can.
picked up by the scruff of my neck
& carried into the boy zoo.
"come on," the stones say. 
i try & try but i am sitting in a ball pit.
the snakes have taken 
my vertebrae for their own. 
"i can't," i say to a toy gun on the table.
my shadow takes a pocket knife
& tries to cut himself free. 

toaster oven gospel

the church on a slice of bread.
i was summoned
as marmalade.
always knew communion
wasn't really flesh. instead,
i saw it as bone. hard to chew.
my tongue, the rutter 
of a ghost ship. sand between teeth.
you will do anything
when you are starving.
fill the monster pew.
i find crumb litany 
& carry a trowel through the day
in case i have to stop 
& bury another angel. 
butter comes in fistfuls.
a dripping sink. heat 
angry & glowing red. i put on
the complimentary sun glasses.
i shave my face 
so no one will recognize me.
skip town. another church.
another sunday morning without
enough light.
me, just a golden plate
waiting to carry the skull
of a deer into the sacristy.
red flickering flame. 
i carve worship until 
it becomes a garment.
put on the dress. become
the woman priest. 
light my hair on fire. this is not 
a tongue of flame. this is
the ashes of a feast. 

considerations for quicksand

i was taught not to fight it
when the floor opens beneath you.
reading my survival guide
from the safety of the library.
outside it rained frogs & mice. 
i took notes. how did i know
so young to be always preparing
for the rapid release of stability.
cautious of sand boxes. what i didn't know
was where quicksand came from.
i assumed it might arrive
at any moment. i was right.
did not trust bath tubs or beaches 
but especially not evenings 
alone with my father. his beer bottle voice.
decapitated telephone.
the yard where i dug with a spoon
in search of dinosaur skulls.
buried my baby teeth, convinced
they might turn into a tree. 
step slowly. do not cry for help.
the sand can hear. knows thrashing.
find a branch to hand onto. 
i looked for arms. anyone's arms.
men's wiry hair. i read that it can always
be too late. too far into the swallow.
i believed though that i could
memorize these tactics 
& escape. have you ever watched
as a belief slipped through your fingers
just like a handful of sand?
goodbye instruction lullaby. 
here i am hanging on to the wrist
of a stranger. his breath 
smells like iron or blood. then i am
again in my bedroom feeling the floor.
the night has eyelashes. 
when you get out, run as far
as you can. you never know
just how wide the quicksand is.
you never know how much it wants.