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. 

pheromone machine

i fill my bike helmet with wildflowers
& drive across the bridge to where
all the bodies live. bodies in their
holes in the wall & their tree knots 
with their laundry flapping in the wind.
i take my eyes off & put them in my pocket.
speak in poems with the hopes that
doves will come & flock to my mouth.
to be hungry for hunger. to want to be
a jewelry store inside someone else's
imaginary wedding. come & get me 
i think & static leaves me ears. swarms 
of bees that live in my heart making honey
for no one but themselves. i do not know
what i would do with a body if i got one.
i guess rather if one would have me.
they make devices these days for people
like me who want to be a salt lick.
deer ride motorcycles. an owl pulls out
a gun & i raise my hands to say,
"i am just in love." he sighs & scoffs,
"as if!" i know it is true. love is not
a barrel to sit in but the balloon string 
you hold & follow. i am not good at that
or whatever else bodies do. i come home
without even a freckle. an arcade replaces
my house which is alright by me i guess.
the bodies come & go. my bones were made
for doorways. for going this way. for
spitting on the side of the trail.
i hold out my hand & a wasp stings me
right in the middle of my palm. 
stigmata comes in many forms i guess.
please though, if you hear the machine 
call me. call me & say, "i love you"
even if you don't. especially if you don't. 

hourglass w/ nails

i have watched a day turn into 
a pile of rusted nails. the teacher
puts me in the "game over" chair
& i watch as she makes my classmates 
play musical hats. when the music stops
you need to find a hat or 
you'll be turned into a beta fish.
there is a little boy in a cage
we call the class pet. he eats food pellets
with his hands. the window is 
a television. once we had a snow day
& all of us ran outside. feasted 
on frost & icicles. our parents were
busy talking to their lawns & so 
it was just us. the teacher said, 
"fend for yourself" which i heard as
"build a pie to sleep in." the hourglass sits
on the end of her desk. whenever she wants
something to be over like a rain storm
or a child crying, she turns the glass over
& tells the subject, "you have this long
to become a loaf of bread again."
the butcher's kids sit in a separate room
so they don't cause any damage. 
blood in their pig tails. spare knives 
in their lunch boxes. i have always wished
i was something dangerous. instead,
they handcuff me to a computer
& tell me to type until i know
where all the keys are. i am convinced
i won't ever know. the hourglass 
grows legs. a centipede. i crawls
across the wall. no one tries to catch it.
after the day is done i always stand ringing
like a struck bell. i tap on the telephone.
call my grandmother who lives
inside a pomegranite. she says,
"don't tell them we talk." i nod & say,
"of course i won't" even though
i know for sure i'm going to confess 
everything to the hourglass 
if i ever get time alone with it. 

toothless

i look for my fangs 
in the roots & brush of the old trees.
mouth made into 
punch bowl. candy dish.
i laid on my back & told everyone
to take their pick. dry fingers 
& damp fingers. the woodpecker
& all of his children. who doesn't want
a relic of another? like in the middle ages
when they harvested bones & flesh
from the bodies of saints.
i am far from a saint. but i am a body.
i am a garden full of weeds & worms. 
full of shards of glass 
& a dead apple tree that bears 
wedding rings & bells. i scavenge 
in the knots. all i want is something
sharp enough to bite a hole
in the wall. escape paths. i curse myself 
for all the ways i'm made myself 
into a nesting ground for others
but never myself. i said to each 
"here is a tooth." i could not
ask for them back so i needed 
something new. fangs. if i have to
i will use pocket knives. i will 
crawl on my belly with the snakes.
rattle for a heart. i am trying to blame
those who took my teeth. to be precious
is to come piecemeal. i know
i was never whole. i do not need to be.
the fangs come delivered by a hoard
of ants who just stripped a fox skull. 
wiping their mouths. two sharp points of light.
i lift them into my skull. marvel at them
in my reflection in the dark lake.
stars like freckles across my cheeks.
the ghost of the animal makes me promise
to keep these in my skull. i tell her, " i will try." 

butter makers 

i talk to the cream about divorce.
about severing. this is not science
this alchemy. transformation.
the cows who come into the living room
to play video games & eat sour cream
& onion chips. butter comes only
from the hard truths. the running-start
sentences where your tongue becomes
an aluminum bat. taking a swing
& missing. people are always hurling
apples at my head. canteloupes fall
from the ceiling & that is how i know
my father is home. saw dust on his back
from building coffins. every family has 
someone who builds the coffins
& someone who makes the butter.
i am often the someone who makes
the butter but if we're honest, we trade 
our roles if the sun is sick with strawberries.
i am a fan of everything stale. leaving
the butter on the kitchen table 
until it is a shrugged-off gold. knife
i keep in my pocket. you always want
the butter to be easy. you think it should be
but then it's melting into your skin.
soaked up by wheat toast or a tenderness
you didn't expect from the microwave.
melting the butter into a bridal shower.
into a baked loaf of baby shoes. worn out.
worn too freaking much. i do not want
to find myself again kneeling beneath 
a beast & waiting for cream. the cows 
say, "it was you who said you needed us."
they kick over the mailbox. they break
a window. i put a pad of butter
on everyone's tongue & for a moment
the world is still. there is a jar of nails
on the mantel. the cows stand 
in the yard watching us. it's my job
to make peace with them. i fill a bowl
with honey & sing until they return. 

jelly jar

let's fill the starwberry 
with all our hammer heads.
the blinking street lamp
finally executed by a middle-schooler.
someone asks me, "what do you do
with all your anger?" i boil it down to
guts & seeds. steam on my glasses.
my mother would talk 
to each berry before it became
a sister. i collect the jars. harvest them
from the den of a politcian.
he feasts on paper machete birds.
before i go he tells me things are
looking up. i try to avoid talk
of the sky. the sky does not grow 
brambles or burs or grapes & blueberries.
the sky is a place birds go
to make escape plans without us.
you don't need to toast or anything.
a spoon is enough to carry a knee cap
into your mouth. sharp & sweet.
no one puckers like they used to.
a wooden spoon can be a femur 
or a family. i come with the jars.
we boil them clean & give them 
their first confessions & communions
before they are ready for the rage.
pots & pots of it. taking the sun
& rendering it a fresh scab. wiping lids.
you be the jelly & i'll be the jam
or else the jar. is there always a vessel?
carry us into the next moon. 
i scope out my insides. cup
after cup of sugar. there i am 
alongside the gooseberries &
the orange finger nails. we eat 
until we vibrate like television static.
lightning storm flosses its teeth 
on the roof tops. the quiet pop
of a jar's lid. before we feast best we can. 

newsprint 

i call you a headline to get your attention.
come on & stocks tank. a share holder
is the last living member of his species.
tomorrow we will commemorate month
of months. a place where we can
representation ourselves in a strike.
the oldest woman alive is selling 
a new flavor of cap'n crunch out of
her boat house. people gather to watch
a corpse flower bloom. it is new years
or it is not. it is christmas again or it is not
& a food drive for our kindergarten troops
is all we have to do to feel good. canned
sausages. canned pudding. a world record
for the largest can of baked beans. middle schoolers
pay off their teacher's medical bills 
by auctioning off their fingernails. we all 
are doing our best or so i am telling you
because today someone set fire to 
a beautiful tree we used to love. i once 
returned to a childhood playground
years later just to find a stump where
a hearty oak used to stand. i smelled
the stump. a reporter held a microphone
& asked, "have you died yet today?" i had not
until that moment. a sound bite of my saying,
"let's not be too worried" when i most certainly 
should be very worried. a new drone 
delivers chocolate to a sea monster 
on it's way to rip open a peaceful.
the fig tree doesn't grow in places like this.
we sit in your grandmother's living room
& wrap each dinner plate in newsprint.
on the television a celebrity is 
a memorializing. casket. bag pipe.
the plates are pristine. never used. 
we keep & keep. we do not talk but sometimes
i move my mouth along with 
the television host as he says,
"a hurricane is spotted off the coast of florida"
& "but there is some good worry."