crochet planet cozies

i pull a thread from the beard
of a dead satellite dish. they bloom
all over the apartment buildings 
& thin kitkat houses on my block.
despite being ghosts, they still talk
to the planets. all week they've whispered
"cold cold cold. they planets are cold." 
i can't imagine what it is like to be in space
without a jacket. once i left my coat
on a plane home from portland & i imagine
that is what they feel like. watch
a tutorial on how to knit a cozie
big enough to hold these massive 
gumballs. someday i know a beast
will come along big enough
to eat us all. chew us until we're pink.
mouth full of burning stars.
until then let's be comfortable.
i buy slippers online & wait for 
the box to arrive. start crocheting
every night. sleep is for those without
existential dread. i'll dig in the yard
& find a new pair of eyes if i need them
to stay awake tomorrow. for now 
we have to dress the planets.
i notice they shiver, shaking in the sky.
"there," i say, as i dress each one
like a cookie jar or a teapot. 
they say, "skull skull skull." i do not know
what they mean. i feed them a packet 
of dice each. ravenous for chances.
some of them still believe one day
they might hold life. mars & her fantasies
of foot falls & birthday parties.
i will not be around to see that but
i tell her i hope it is marvelous
& it's true. i hope it is. 

gymnasium the size of thimble 

promise me the legs you used
to climb the dead tree.
i talk to me child-self. he cuts holes
in every moment i give him. 
a rope spills from my father's mouth
& he tells me to climb. we all know zeus
even if he hasn't come to us
in the form of a swan. i challenge 
my boy self to a race with my girl self
& my boy self loses & vows 
to burn every house he sees 
for eighteen years. i hold a spoon
with an egg in it. this is a relay between here
& the warmth of a struck match.
it is amazing how gigantic a space can become
when you start to dream of escape.
one day the gymnasium filled with
red rubber balls. i cradled them.
took care of them like nestlings
while the men came & reaped everything they could.
there is an ai now who can run away
for you & tell you what happens. 
i do not grieve my grief. it lives 
like a tossed frisbee. of course we can
get it back. i wanted a ribbon or something
to show that i didn't die. that i ran
as fast as my gender would carry me 
& then i was in the dark of a metal roof.
i was told there would be a crowd.
there is never the crowd you need.
would you believe me if i told you
i have won? i would not believe myself.
that was several sexes ago. now i am 
an amphibian. it rains & i come alive.
breathe through skin. climb the rope.
he changes tactics. he says, "run with me" 
& as he runs his foot falls shake the earth. 
i already know & he already knows 
i have not chance of catching him. 

empty box

when jesus resurrected he left
his vagina in the form 
of a music box. it's a television
in other version of the story.
the truth is always told
by femmes & then turned into
shadow puppets.
the jury is still out as to whether or not
jesus was femme but there is
a church on the moon where
they keep a single press on nail they think
was his. it's in a little glass box. 
queens come there to weep.
a reflection is something deposited
& not something you can scoop
from a surface. i see myself
in empty spaces. in television screens. in
a music box that opens & no sound comes out
& you wonder what makes it 
a music box if there's no song inside.
jesus didn't know what he meant
by leaving. considered sending
a text message for us to wake up to.
instead, he left in a tear 
like most of us do. i am still looking
for where to keep my empty 
& i am often jealous of jesus
with his infinite vagina. he gets
to be free of anything. he gets to
kiss angels if he wants to. devour planets.
whittle a face into the moon
& i am here in a museum of empty boxes.
i carry my own. fill it with pebbles 
from the stream. we all do what we must
to keep the tomb full. i light 
a candle. i hear a thread
of escaped music. toss my reflection
like a handful of dice. 

hood ornaments for dead cars

how much longer
do you have left until
the junk yard calls you "figment"? 
a dream inside the belly of a machine. 
up the street i watch as cars 
are made into promise rings
which is to say they are unkept.
portals to whatever future you can crush.
the upholstery blooming
with worms & their lovers.
parables written in switch blade songs.
rust coming like ruffles. how do you
want to be adorned when you die?
i want to be decorated 
like paper plate macaroni art.
bring the ghost children & the birds
to my face & tell them i was a vehicle.
we drove as far as the world would let us.
glued jaguars to our foreheads 
& tore holes in the wind.
headlights scooping sunrise 
from the eyesockets of the universe.
it is all about what you can escape with.
i always filled my pockets with coins.
planted seeds in my thighs.
so many little trees bearing just
one golden apple at a time. the junk yard
is what i know a heaven is. 
mushrooms telling over & over
the story of the universe. one says,
"let's start at the beginning"
then, sung in a round, they speak again.
me in the shattered glass of an oldsmobile.
goodbye says the maple. goodbye says
the rubber. goodbye says the hood ornaments
who dream of a miniature village
where they could hold their weddings. 

dollhouse w/o

i go to watch my inocence
like a zoo creature. she is cutting 
the heads off babies & making them
into offerings. she is picking flowers
& feeding them to angels.
the dollhouse is always a place 
without one wall. that is what
i was born into. a door off its hinges.
wing dissected from bird. feathers 
i tried to stuff into the seams.
the flashlight i used when it was 
a father night. how lightning bugs 
knocked on the windows & said,
"are you plastic yet?" they wanted to know
if i was alright. my dolls 
were hollow which is to say i did
not have them. they were bundles
of sticks & a match stick box. 
i have always cared for discarded 
girls. gabage girls & race track girls 
& gasoline girls. she bakes a plastic pie.
the pie is perfect in the way only
the artifical can be. let's replica 
what we never had. pretending to eat.
how long, little animal, 
have you pretended to eat? 
i have most of my life. the viewer
pretends there is a wall 
where there is none in the dollhouse.
the occupants do not. 

violin chest

it is tradition in our house
to lay the oldest son down
& hollow out his body 
for song. the dim light
of the basement wood shop.
all afternoon we tried to catch a horse 
to pluck hairs enough for the bow.
running in the fields 
with butterfly nets. the first time
i heard violin was when a girl
up the street laid down
in the driveway & begged to be
made a mouth piece. 
her father came & played.
the notes fell as a soft snow & soon
she was transformed into an owl.
still, sometimes i see her 
standing in the dead oak tree
on the corner. he carves with a knife.
two "s" holes from to reach inward.
to push through the pain
i try to think of how happy 
everyone will be when i get up
& perch in the middle of the dinner table
to open every gathering with a melody.
he tells me, "this will not hurt"
even though he knows it will
& i know it will. i bite down 
on a dead bluebird. the blue 
is contagious & i fill with clouds 
& running mice. when everything is done
we string thebow together. everyone begs,
"play something!" i feel lost inside
my own instrument. what should
someone play? what is a son?
i closed my eyes & spoke like
a wood pecker. then, a humming bird.
drinking the air. each note rung through me.
that night i hugged myself tight.
felt all the music of mailboxes 
& telephone polls as they streched out
inside of me. my father said 
when he was done, "you will learn."
i drop pennies into my chest
like throwing them into a well. 

wax father / mother

i found your forms 
in underwear ads. triptychs of gender.
school hallway where at the end
there is a candle wick. 
we would collect half-used lighters
like talismen. bottom of my backpack.
what kind of flame would you like?
you were busy mowing the lawn
for the hundreth time. you were busy
milking the cow of her wax. 
spilling jupiter & a mop to clean up
the tongue before it dries.
i never knew how to tell you i was 
trying to learn how to fly. instead.
i paced the roof in the dead of night.
plucked stars like blueberries
& fed them to the ghosts to keep them
from shoving me off the edge. 
a flame is a place of gathering. moths 
for their funerals. burned like 
secret notes passed by carrier pigeons
in the knees of night. then, genders
to feast on an image. here is where
everyone can see me. the light,
an agent of almost. shadows that
could give you a face or take it away.
flickering. here is where you are 
& then gone. you with the holes
burned in your socks. you with
a tunnel underneath the city where
you go to be a woman. a man. 
i pour the mold. pull the wick out 
of your head. ask if you want to choose
which light i pick to light you.
you go with the blue one. it's all
part of being alive. watching your
whole self melt in the name of a spell.
soon we will know what is left. 

toy chest

in the middle of a serious i go to find
where the toy soliders lay down to pretend to be dead.
once, i threw a brick at car window 
& the world caved in right there. i ran away
on doll-girl legs. hid inside a sweet tooth
until it rotted out & i was all alone in a sea
of lincoln logs. is everything a little bit about
conquest? what is taken from who? 
how the taking becomes a way of life. 
i remember stealing a friend's stuffed animal 
at a sleep over. how i hid that stuffed monster 
in the bottom of the toy chest & in doing so
the toy chest became a coffin. came to visit
& pay respects, saying, "i cannot play with you."
i was terrified at myself for what i'd done. 
my friend would say, "i wish i could find that stuffed monster."
& i would not blink at all, just listen & nod.
toys do have a way of wandering away & becoming 
boyfriends. i once had a pocket knife who knocked
on my window until i gave in & let him take.
i guess "let" is what we say when we want to pretend
we had agency over how we were taken from.
a pocket knife can be a toy as can a bb gun
& a lawn mower & a wooden spoon & even
a jar of animal bones. i rooted in the chest
for a mirror. for a plastic sandwich to take
to school when i had no lunch. pretending to chew.
have you ever pretended to chew? you can 
almost taste exactly what you want to. 

pink vinyl

she opened her mouth &
all the worms came out.
pink is a place where we go
to be threatening. the ear
of a shell where all the sea monsters
leave their pocket change.
i once again am laying
on the tongue of a straight girl
who doesn't know how quickly
a heart can become a harvest.
in school i was taught
to never say "heart" when i mean
something else. i don't know
what else i could possibly mean.
i mean the stake for the vampire. i mean
driving through the convenience store window
& stealing only the bubble gum.
i mean a gun in a refridgerator.
saving the ending for later.
i sit in her ear & whisper lists
of everything i wish we were:
lovers, pilots, pillow-fort sargents,
architects, & assassins. let's not
carry more rocks than there are windows.
i've learned to build an altar
to pink. play the pink vinyl sounds
only when the garbage truck is coming.
you will not take my paws or
my cream. i pull the blinds shut.
listen to a song knit from times she said,
"i love you" & meant it as a friend.
imagining flipping over each letter
as if it were stone. the grubs 
& the newts & the crawlers beneath. 

"th" sound

i planted thistle 
in the throat of a false god.
haven't you ever thrown
your head too far?
the yesterdays i vanished 
searching for that lighthouse.
my eyes, turned into dart boards
for any kind of wondering thrist.
he thrashed which is to say he put
his tongue behind his teeth 
& formed a pilot. paper airplanes
we thrust at the enemy.
the enemy, just a mask of pinwheels.
thumbless men who eat 
without their hands. lips pressed
to the golden plate. i never thought
i would have to call in a favor
from the thread keepers.
they weave me a vest. a vest of
thousands of gems. glitter or 
gutter. we need a new place
to put our vowels. i do not have
enough pockets or thank you notes 
to harbor this kind of push.
pressure against a porthole. 
the airplane flies & forgets
in a blaze of thunder. i call a radio tower
& then everyone can hear my thoughts.
i am saying, "i used to have teeth.
i used to have a thong." it's incredibly embarassing
to have a daliance with a sound. 
the words come back to me 
in flocks. thrive, thick, thaw.
the softness i always needed to reach
another morning. th all over again.
birds opening their th in the dawn.
a th in the mailbox & a th 
waiting to pounce. there aren't
enough words to tell you exactly how
i have been losing all my language 
to the hole in the basement. thorns 
in my bed. thrifting another mouth.
a thimble of honey. a throne of rice.