saltwater fish

when i learned to breathe i asked
the stones for their permission.
a life is a body of water. i toss my lungs
back like eels. feet in the ocean.
i have been planning to run away for as long
as i can remember. i am a salt water fish. 
my bones thin until all i need to open me is a man 
sitting at the kitchen counter: his mallet & knife. 
he's been waiting to see his reflection in my scales.
fists of water. putting a shell to his face
he finds it swallowed. smoothed elbows
& ancient tongues of the old water. 

kitchen on the moon

i walk to the edge of my yearning.
break bread into smaller & smaller castles.
barefoot as an astronaut, following 
a highway made of ginger. o moon, will you give me 
a refrigerator full? eggs spinning with 
thoughts of feathers. i woke up once in a nest.
mars red through tree branches. why do i always 
try to get far away from myself to feast?
to rest? as if there might be a place i could go
where my body would unpuzzle itself. blood like
a velvet tide. i eat standing at the counter
by the spigot & cutting board. i leave crumbs.  

on estrangement 

on holidays, i sleep in the extra space ship.
it is my fault the house is full of forks.
for so long i tried to live on different moons.
one had a frozen ocean. another had star-eyed fish.
the last was desolate except for a pile
of broken picture frames. they were empty. 
don't worry though, the space ship doesn't work.
not any more. it is just a lovely place to plant
your teeth & wait for them to become roses.
tell me, who has grown you roses? i am waiting.
last week a friend asked me, "what is rest to you?"
i said, "not thinking of what comes next."

paper submarine

i keep saying "this is going to be okay"
when the water is saying, "you are
a dead boy." i found the ocean 
like a fist. bruises it gives me. fish in the deep 
with eyes made of light bulbs. i thought
i knew how to dive, to swim. ignored every ship wreck. 
sometimes we think we can will the truth. 
i am not drowning. i am not drowning. water pressure.
weight of all the planets. their boney shoulders.
i am not just trying to put out a fire.
opening my mouth. fingers trying to find my gills.
the vessel is not a vessel. it is an unsound bridge.

leaky ceiling

in the abandoned house off main street
i found my wild knowing. bird beaks
kalideoscoped. chandelier in my chest. spearmint bush
bursting through floorboards. 
everything has jagged edges when you are fifteen.
doorways chew you pink. i would sleep with my eyes open, 
waiting for a flock to come & scoop out my tongue. 
this is a hymn for those who arrive to empty places. 
hallway of blackberries. i plucked door knobs from my manias. 
rolled them down the hallway. i'd think, "does anyone else
hear the moon turning over?" 
no? only me? 

snake winding

lets take a walk in the python & cottonmouth.
my tongue slips out & says something
i'm going to regret. i hide chicken hearts
where ever i can forget them. under the pillow
i find a knife. it is not my knife. 
hasn't your body every knotted around itself?
we keep venom in a glass jar in case we need
to make an antidote. i want to be cured 
of all my visitations. the voices that arrive
with a cleaver in both hands. blood is snake
& so are my lips. rattlers signal the end of a color. 
goodbye blue. goodbye copper. hello viper. 

ghost houses

i feather & you collect me like kindling. 
in the country something is always entering
ghosthood. you take your flashlight & i take 
a crystal bowl. in the backyard, the birds die
one by one, dandelions. yellow & then
nothing but breath & then scattered. 
we hang ghost houses in the trees for the birds. 
tell me one creature who isn't in the process of returning. 
i sleep walk down the highway towards the water tower.
eat wild onion until my teeth turn to eggs.
hatching little spirits. we whistle 
& the trees whistles back.

it runs in the family

my father counts tornados with tallies that
he etches in a pillar in the living room.
i want to tell him he is so doomsday. 
the tornados are just trying to laugh & besides 
there's still water left. i got out to feed the tornados. 
handfuls of cherries for them to red with. these days, 
i red all the time. dipping my face in bruises. 
finding a wound in the dirt to talk to. i need 
a fresh destruction. my father eats new moons & then 
doesn't open his lips for days. what are you trying to contain?
if i shouted like i need to, i'd just disaster this house.
the forest would be five tally marks. 

inflatable planets

i shed my breathe like a buffalo herd.
being with you was rushing into crowded rooms. 
we sit in the yard & look up into the night sky's mouth.
i know i do not love you & yet here i am
with a candle & a survival kit, trying to future.
you can spit your soul out if you are not careful.
i fill a balloon with it. all the silk & the gloss.
how you used to put your fingers down my throat
to feel the sleeping animals there. i'd tell you
to "stop" & you would say, "how do i know
i'll ever see you again?" bullied gag reflex.  
this is how i made the planet, from my own pounding. 

crop top

my stomach is the playground where
i go to be feminine. if a garment could teach me
self-praise. i do not want to be celebrated,
i want to be indulged. drape me in honey combs. 
crack open the geode & feed me crystal & for you
i will do the same. my fingers in your violin. 
hairs grow like a thinned forest across my skin. i carry fire
in a plastic bucket. hold summer in a walnut half. 
blindfolded & following lavendar. there will be too much 
to eat. there will be no noise of restriction.
only the abundance we knew was there. to feast 
is to have a noisy body & still carve revelry from it.