frolic

i used to want a skull & now all i want
is a wicker basket to carry my wondering.
no preocupations or terrors
just thoughts that meander like
cirrus clouds. smeared pastel.
oil left on the ceiling from a previous god.
at the farmer's market i sneak
under a leaf of cabbage & hear
the sound of wood winds. i consider
what it would take to feel loosened.
my arms are purple-seeking dragons.
tunnels beneath the earth house reserves 
of untapped whimsy. soon we will be 
nothing but field dwellers again.
the dandelions will grow from 
our eyes. yellow language as we finally learn
how to ask the sun for an apology.
burns in the shape of petals.
my skin, always a nuisence. 
trying to teach my body to be
more like its water. letting go 
of teeth. little sail boats sinking.
a lake of pink water. papercuts 
all across my sightline. here is where
we peel rind from fruit. roll melons
down the side of the mountain. 
ask rocks for their oldest names.
i find myself in your meadow.
i wear the only dress left in the world
and let my barefeet catelog textures.
i bury my gender with my bare hands
so he-she can find the tunnels.
cover her up & put my ear to soil
so i can hear the sound of acordians
& condors. above, i count airplanes
until it is nighttime & i have spent
every single number. all that's left
is wingbeats. bats share strawberries
& offer me a triangle of night.

landscaping

with our trowels we cut Xs
into the softest earth. i watched men
as they carried bushes by the neck.
the valley proliferated 
with golfballs & boy shoes.
soon we will all be archeological.
planting women up to the waist 
for future use. their hair 
like jungle gyms. rain fell 
in catacombs & then in veils.
snipping off our pinky fingers
& burrying them on the other side.
waiting for a great tree to grow
from what was once our hungers.
tree bearing apricots. rain 
turning to oil. a fire feeding
on the downpour. from there 
we removed organs. hearts 
& irises & pennies & mugwort.
a sacrifice is a parting away 
of the pieces. here is the self
that will not walk back.
children in their echo robes
being led barefoot into the furrow.
i wanted a rose bush. i wanted 
a tomato tree. here arrive
the thorned eagles. onion grass
beneath the skin. asking soil
to kneel into quiet hills.
a bicycle undoing the world.
here is where the roots 
will become legs. here is where
my ankles are entombed. 

seat belt

in a gallery of car crashes 
we were the salvage & the roll cage.
blinking humming bird. a fire extinguisher
arriving without a body. i open
a plastic bag of screw & swallow them
one by one. the weight of winter
in a mallet. how to prevent against
disaster, a step by step guide.
i often don't wear my harness
out of fear of being useful. i would prefer
to click the space ship into place.
a stop sign has a whole family now.
intersections with capsized deer.
my brother & i swerving
like only children can. air bags
in our chests. the helmet of a dead boy
floating down river. turn your shoes
into canoes & paddle with the mice
onward towards the man made junk yard.
i will be a trash maker just like you.
speed limits are suggestions.
on the way home everyone passes me
either that or i am invisible 
& the road is just an old story.
coughing up steering wheels.
i never meant to be a driver
but in america everyone gets old enough
for the face to be a windshield.
bugs in my teeth. brush on the side
of the highway. i wear a stoplight
around my neck & stand between
your legs. guard rails bloom neon.
i welcome the fall, whenever it finds me.
buckle me into my skeleton.
here is the safety exit. here is
the other vibrating door.
tell me how you survive here.
i still need to figure it out 
for myself.

Home Cremation 

Let’s take matters into our own hands.
I will bring the matches and you can
Chop down the cypress tree. 
I have a special fireplace where we 
Can make dust of all our faults. 
Scatter them like seed in fallow worlds.
At what temperature does bone
Give in to fire? We were fed to lions
And made our way through meat and organ 
Like cave explorers. What do you call 
A flashlight without a face. Burials 
Are for men and woman and I am 
Neither. I need only a sofa to sleep on.
Lamp in the corner slowly turning angel.
In every closet we keep materials 
That need to be burned: telephones 
And hope chests and even the dolls.
You ask me who should go first. 
You’re holding a match like a dog leash.
I volunteer. Open my mouth wide enough
To swallow a deer. Hooves trampling 
My desires to be kept. Tell me 
How easy would it be to talk
Only to flames? My ash, a sifted shadow.
Use old shoes as urns. Keep my earrings 
In a glass bowl to be mistaken for fruit.

popsicle-mouthed 

we were newts under out
respective stones. the cool damp
of a flower's shoulder. humming birds
trying to learn to play electric guitar 
in time for winter. the dead deer
are visited at night be forest gods
to ensure the spirit rises.
above the swimming pool antlers collect 
& require a great broom to disperse them.
i made a farm in my closet. grain 
only for myself. holdingt a popsicle stick
out & waiting for sweetness to come.
once i had a neighbor who only ate sugar.
sat on the back porch with a bag
& a spoon. he soon was a butterfly &
then he was just a chrysalis. the desire
to revert. here is where i used to 
dig a coffin-hole. here is where i ate
cream from a stick. calling my mother
in the middle of the night 
to make sure she is alright.
no one holds their phones like babies anymore.
when the sun comes up i put on
a jacket to sheild myself 
from all the arrival. putting the day
back in its plastic wrapper
to save for later. i would like more time
but the heat is here & taking away 
all of our frozen. what's left 
of the ice caps is in our knee caps.
a polar bear clings to a popsicle stick.
three arctic foxes die in
a perfect circle. nature knows 
perfectly well how it wants to fall apart.
this is how i know i am unnatural
or dislodged from my natural.
i walk in circles for hours.
eat popsciles until my mouth is 
a polar openning. each tooth a trigger
or a tombstone. tongue,
a door mat for future amphibaians.

studded belt

linoleum is for fourteen-year-olds only.
i sat at a bench in the mall & counted pigeons
out a glass window. my stomach whirled
like a tornado in a jar. how many hours
can you go without trying to be
a purchase? i practiced kissing my hand.
wrote "i love you" on a bathroom stall door.
wore a studded belt around my neck 
but only in my bedroom. listening to 
an electronic girl. kittens for sale.
the boys in their desire for rubber.
who needs oxygen when you can have plastic?
a barette in the shape of a cow.
imagining myself covered in star tattoos.
what is the meaning of "before."
i am the formerly wonderful. brown hair
in the closet. a dress as long 
as the whole street. corn growing 
from every nook of my future.
i toss pennies in the fountain &
wish for sex with a boy who doesn't know
i'm also a boy. soon enough 
i'll be able to cut off all my hair.
the universe slips through a hole
in my black canvas shoes. everyone 
who is going to love me is a freckle
on the moon. pretzels link arms
in their butter. at home there is 
a pile of dead birds on my desk
i will need to sort through &
a brother in a pill bottle waiting
to be swallowed with water. 
for now though, i am the glint 
every mouth finds when kneeling.
a song on repeat. an aux chord 
in the roof of a mouth. no one meets me.
my phone flips open. i take a picture
the size of a fingernail. 

house of mirrors

my face was a jungle gym 
or an equation to be solved
without division. a nose 
flanked by two trees.
mouths of august & ivy.
i used to take myself apart
& put my tongue out on the clothesline.
waving like a pageant octopus.
what exists but is not spoken 
is a different kind of real. 
this is what it means 
to be my own basket.
a dozen eyes down a hallway
each with her own decision 
to become a something-else.
geese make arrows to be used
on future keyboards. for now
they are flying south 
not for winter but 
for the hell of it. 
i take my something-else-ness
away from the patio where
even the sun has duplicates:
bright & humming. jumping beans
on a shelf all fall to the floor
& jitter. the spotlight 
doesn't notice me & stay green 
until i cough. when the nurse 
draws up blood she only needs
to do it once because
in the mirrors there are 
many many more vials. 
a precision is lost though
between each iteration
& by the last it is the blood
of a dragon. the basement mirrors 
make my face a shadow box.
doll & shoe & birth certificate.
i am a proof machine.
here is the details: i once asked
to see myself clearly 
& from all possible angles.
the next day i woke up
in the house. a mirror for
every fear. a mirror for every
desire. my favorite one
is black. a scrying mirror.
it is the only one who sees
my pupils with clarity.
i keep it covered 
at the back of the refrigerator.
go there & ask
"is this still my face?"
the mirror always answers yes.
what will i do when one day
she, telling the truth,
admits "no" ?

my brother is an opera

made of mirrors & teeth. x-rays 
of jaws bones & spotlights following us
around the house. all of us really 
will be some kind of performance.
i was a quartet & then i became 
a silent film. he sings every word 
& every word is a stepping stone
towards the apocolypse. he assks what should
we tell god when we see her?
i suggest was say that we had instruments 
made of horse hair
& brothers opening their hearts
on the roof. a brother is always 
a site of doubling back. return.
once i had long hair just like him. 
now i wear the skull of stone. he rubs oils
into his beard. dusts off his feet
before putting on socks. i buy 
special binoculars to look at my brother.
i build a baucony from where i can
watch him without the threat 
of becoming part of the story. 
distance is sometimes a demonstration 
of commitment. i am not always a good brother.
operas are always endless. even when he sleeps
he's singing. what's next & next & next.
a trap door in the stage where
he will emerge in a long dress.
his fingers like silk. a piano upsidedown 
& floating towards us down the street.
i wish i could take up more space
when i need a catastophe. become 
another brother in my darkness. 
instead, i find a harp & hold it
like an infant. the opera is never over.
the intermission is a handful of corn.
i tell my brother i love him 
& i try not to sing it. he knows i do.
he knows. a spotlight makes my shadow 
clearer than ever before.
my shadow & his shadow escape
to catch their breath. what if
we were both just voices? 
then we would fit nicely inside a jar.
my soprano. his bass. a blur 
of family. soon he will be older than me. 

strawberry printer

we plugged the sky in & left it running
while we had our hundreds of years.
you were baking in the middle of the night
when you deserved a rest. what started as brownies 
arrived as tiramisu & corn bread. there was 
a new vaccine for loneliness but i was worried
it would eradicate poets so instead 
i built this house & all its machines. 
winter is full of gardens. i had a digital one 
complete with rows of cows. petting their heads
with a cursor. outside another flock of phone books
continued their journey to the great fires.
ash is to ash & dust is to deliberate.
i called an old friend & hung up before 
either of us could say hello. crossed that
off a list. decided i needed strawberries
if i was going to survive. dug holes 
in the drywall, trying to grow a whole wall.
their roots would not take. mice died
from the poison i'd set & their ghosts
scurried across the floor. they overturned 
the planters i tried to cultivate strawberries in.
there were no other options. i had to 
print them from my own longing.
summoning strawberries from my printer.
cord plugged into my throat. they came 
white at first but then riper & riper
until they were real & soft & full of red.
i ate each of them. their juice still warm
from creation. only five of them. i left one
to dangle from a string tied to the ceiling.
the others thrummed inside me like fish.
i was not at all lonely. i was accompanied
by hungry. it became so loud it gained
its own shadow. followed me into bed.
knotted my computer chords. winter is not a season
at least not anymore. it is the blanket
with which i sling the world over my shoulder.
an imperative to stay warm 
making the strawberries i can. 

the butter sculptor

he used to think in metal.
put on his gloves & watched his father
sodder scrap metal into monsters.
their backyard was full of brambles 
& broken wood. living trees tangled
with the dead. his fathers sculptures
were his nightmares. he used 
to look out the window of his childhood
& see them slithering around the yard.
the first image he carved in butter 
was a simple rose. he did so 
with a silver knife at the dining room table.
sectioned off cubes & made each 
a new blossom. contemplated 
what it was about butter that craved
to become new. dreamed all kinds of shapes:
a carousel horse & a dragon 
& a bear laughing on his back. 
taught himself how to work with softness.
this was something his father never knew.
soddering arms into place. saving buckets
of beer bottle caps for eyes. 
the silence between them in the weeks after
his father saw him kiss a neighbor boy
at the end of the street. that boy's hands
like butter in the dark as they took turns
sneaking into each other's bedrooms at night.
he always expected to be caught
but never was. it was a shared understanding
both that he loved other boys 
& that his father would never speak of it.
he would never go so far as to carve
a boy from butter but he did carve hands.
small hands & large hands. these were
the ones he ate. slowly dismantled 
with his own morning toast. 
it is so hard to be fed. people by 
his sculptures now. he takes custom orders:
dogs & cows & horse faces. he craves 
this task of rendering a body 
even soft than it lives. works gently 
in the cold kitchen. tells himself 
"i am nothing at all like my father"
as he traces the shape of an eye 
in the yellow oily surface.
wipes his hands on his work pants
& thinks of the sound of a bottle cap
falling into a bucket.