talking cactus

i watered my fingers
only when they turned needle.
walked eighteen miles 
in the ghastly forest-desert 
to consult a field of talking cactus.
i wore my purse like a necklace
& counted my savings. coins 
turned locus in my hands.
another plague is always 
just around the corner. what can
a boy-girl do but look toward leather
for durability. sharpen their knives
on the moon. "what must be done
will be done," says the first cactus,
arms like a goal post. face as silent
as the side of a mountain.
the next suggests, "have you tried
closing your eyes & counting 
to one-thousand." i have no 
& do no plan to. keep thinking
i should have asked a river 
what i should do with my body.
cactus are prone to optimism. 
i can't decide if bright sides 
are still a thing. is there 
anything good in the garage?
earth tilts more than she should
& i feel it. kneel down 
to try to adjust it same as
a crooked picture frame 
but it seems like everyone is 
comitting to being askew 
for the forseeable future.
another cactus says, "everything 
is wrong..." i plug my ears
& i'm sorry reader but i didn't
catch the rest. i have become
a collector of purposeful unknowns.
the cactus are not in a field.
they wither into mint flavored tooth picks.
we have a kitchen the size of the world.
the last knife snaps in half 
& now all we have are our discontents. 

callisto & arca

a son always returns as the hunter.
his golden bow at his side.
moon hanging like a beam of sugar
across the forest's bearded wild. 
woman inside a bear 
inside a prick of light.
the sons we leaven just to see
them harden into caskets of bone.
my days on four pillars. taking 
whatever the trees will tell me.
i miss nothing about womanhood
besides when, on a rare night alone,
i might glimpse myself in a pool.
notice fabric draped across
my body & think, "i am nothing
but a future constellation." 
for most myths we know what is coming.
told our own stories as children.
followed what was promised. 
the gravity of zeus. to think 
i once believed i could escape.
could become a common girl
& have no stories spun around me.
that was arrogant though
because all girls have stories
weaving them. who doesn't want
to be twice-told. yes, it is me.
your mother in the body of a bear.
arca, you haven't grown at all
since you were just a shard of glass
in my chest. now, let me be your father.
i can show you what it means 
to truly capture. come closer,
do you not understand? i am about
to become nothing more 
than a spilled handful of stars.

cycle

as in "life" but not 
two wheel & a basket of plums.
for describing the persistence
of buds growing from my neck.
once, we raised tadpols 
in the bathtub. watched their legs
as they slowly emerged. 
beneath any skin there are 
so many limbs. growing pumpkins 
in the basement without
a speck of light. they turn
ghost & roll up & down stairs.
meaning repeated grief or
revelry. i'm holding a seance
for my sixteen year old self.
there she is with a mouth full
of chicken eggs. air too 
moves in race tracks. coming back
to where you were before. 
a snake loose in the house.
replanting dead shoes & waiting
from a fresh box to emerge.
if only it was true. if only
everything returned pristine
after a certain number 
of pirouttes. i walk a nest of eggs 
around the block three times.
by the third i have an eagle.
then there is the other kinds of return.
how, even after we cleaved apart
i craved the burning corners 
you set for me. bear trap in the kitchen.
suitecase of your favorite knives.
you, showing me each sharpness
before putting them away & asking innocently
"why do you say you're afraid."
we crave the familiar even if it means
again becoming a corn husk doll.
i am more flammable than ever.
in a nest at the back of my closet
i save a bluebird egg. sleeping & safe.
talk to the egg. tell her
"you can keep your bones
all to yourself." shut the door.
take a walk around the block
& search the ground 
for signs of whatever season
will ask next for a set of keys.  

cow-tipping

dreaming the impossible
i always look 
at the spaces between fingers.
consider what i could topple over.
then remember a photograph
of my grandmother. alone in italy
in front of the leaning tower
arms behind her back. we are all hiding
our desire to see animals knocked
off their hooves. i make a fist & practice 
fending off a hoard of crows.
in the field behind my parent's house
cows roamed. discussed armageddon 
& read each other's spots 
like tea leaves. i was fourteen
when i first trekked out there
in the sharpened autumn cold.
felt the harvest earth crunch 
beneath my shoes. cows. wide-eyed.
a flock of mothers. their breath making
brief clouds. most of them, 
already laying down. i kneed. joined them.
wished to sleep amoung their big bones.
closed my eyes to picture cows
tumbling like grocery bags. then,
head over hoof. rolling toward
oblivian. me too, nothing more 
than a stray wheel. i wanted to lead
each of them one by one into my bed room.
turn off the lights 
& feel their comforting weight.
instead i left without a single body
unturned. tripped on a stone
by the edge of the field. 
wiped my blooded hand on my thigh
& scooped myself back into 
the dark of the house. imagined my family 
all as cows. pushing my brother
into my father. cow dominos.
tipping one into the next.

sleeping in

the year i kept my lips in a ring box
i didn't once turn the light off.
from the sidewalk i would look 
& see my bedroom's yellow glowing window.
it was all about remainders. what was
left of us. what was left of my girlhood.
what was left of the sun. my mouth
needed to be worn around your finger.
a boy who wouldn't take his shoes off
gripping the headboard. i took the days
as sheetcake. cut off a square of home
& pretended it tasted vanilla instead
of just white. fork's neck. never once
closing the blinds. my way of saying
whatever you see you see. once, wrapped 
only in a towel, i witnessed cars 
as they army-crawled toward their driveways.
secretly, i woke up everyday bluer
than the day before. i could use 
sleep as the shovel i needed. i could use sleep
like a barricade or a steam boat.
my blankets blurring to butter. a boy
knowing at the back door of the building
exactly what he wanted to discover in me.
a trowel in his teeth. a rake in mine. 
there is nothing but a wolf between 
my two top ribs. quelling him. telling him
we have hours to rest. the floor
is hot lava. the street is one siren away
from becoming nothing but lights. 

sock-knotting

i want to hold hands 
to completion. where "to become"
means to envelop. our sea shell skin
holding the muscle of our desires.
where is your longing located?
is there a key in your drawer
salvaged from a pile of foot steps.
i used to collect rain 
in mason jars in case the sky
turned into my fingers & forgot 
how to let go. steam from a cup of tea
nests with cirrus wings inside 
the sock drawer. do we all handshake
with ourselves? do we all 
encounter moments of sameness.
a need to tie the hot air balloon
to the front porch & say, 
"that too is mine." taking my day off
one sock at a time. remembering
my barefoot years where no matter what
no one could coax me into socks.
was i against pairs? i believe 
i still am. i prefer odd numbers.
a third earring to hang from 
the ceiling before exiting a scene.
a third sock, unknotted & asking
to be filled with pennies. 
i say, "quarters" & let the states
be swallowed one by one. 
where do you put your toes
in the dark? i curl mine.
tiny fish hooks or tulip buds.
waiting for the company. mostly,
i want to discover the alone i had
last year standing at my dresser
pressing one sock into 
the chest of another & thinking
"i want to be this fabric,
i want to be kissed through
a fabric mirror." 

poison apple

i saw my face in the skin.
we were just girls in the attic
where all mirrors grew wide & fibbing.
i told you i was hungry 
by which i meant 
i wanted to be the kind of girl
you were. with your scepter  
& your bowl of dice. instead
i had grown wild & motherless as ivy. 
woke up to see my own limbs 
over-taking the walls.
being a princess is not about body
or mind--it's about fear.   
the repeated question what will
i carry? when carry means
what fruit will take me to sleep.
if i'm telling the truth i crave this.
a slumber beside death. 
as a girl i used to assemble a boyhood
from moss & dead moths.
was it a shrine or a grave? 
maybe both. teeth through red skin.
i'm eating my own face. replaced
with glowing white. if bitten into 
what color would your heart be
my love? i always picture grey 
or old maroon. while underwater 
i hope you tell stories about
my barefeet. i hope you find 
the boy memorial pray at it until 
i come back completely transformed.
no more glass in me at all.
a man made of moss & briars. 

walk-in closet

my gender uses too many coat hangers
both to drape & to dagger. i once removed
a string of pearls from my throat.
self-surgeries by desk lamp. 
who knew some people have
so much room. then again, you can
walk into just about any closet 
with enough determination.
who of us hasn't felt the green back wall
hoping to find destiny?
into a small closet. smell of moth wings
& shoulders. asking myself
what would it take to wander a step forward?
truly, i want to be the thoroughly
un-nested animal. i want crypts
to petal off me. water off
my back. instead i crave these 
ripe unknowing sphere. crawling into 
a personal anonymity. a collection 
of glass door knobs. laying out a blanket 
beneath the fleat of sweaters. 
no stars can exist in closets
but sometimes i swipe one. open it 
like a flip phone & watch 
as i gain a shadow for a flicker or two.
some people have so much they build homes
for their shoes. they invent 
a castle just to museum their joyful.
i am terrified of all closed closet doors
but even more afraid of them open. 
toothless in the dark. i step inside.
feel the damp warm walls. 
a mouth or a meadow or a minced word.
here my gender cacoons. becomes 
bioluminescent & delicate. 
belongs to only me. 

gas light

how often do you believe 
in perfection? we built 
each others bedrooms & swallowed
the spare screws. you used to write
my thoughts on a stickie note
& fold them before feeding each to me
softly as you would apple to horse.
there is no gasoline in the car.
it drives itself with a belly
of ghosts. sitting in your parked jeep.
rain trailing down the windshield.
you told me it was not raining
& so the precipitation entered through
a pin-sized hole in the back 
of my head. i drowned several times
in your bone broth. if you call me
husband, will i suddenly become 
what you wanted? we all have a wife
inside us who tells us to believe
whatever the teeth promise. 
is it optimism or fear? or is optimism 
just a kind of fear? i had 
a perfect diagram of what i needed to be.
you caught it like a pigeon & tore off
wings one at a time. i saw you once
stand on the building's roof & jump.
you flew & when you returned i asked 
"where did you go?" you laughed.
you kissed me like water kisses fire.
said, "i was here. i have always 
been here." 

hide & go see

from this vantage point 
i notice your collection of glass eyes.
learn to lodge myself
behind clock faces & in the blades
of ceiling fans. watch as
arms & wings move in front of me
making an animation of your life.
the distance between "your life"
& "our life" is a slingshot letter.
i pick up the twig & snap it in half.
look now we're whole. one wonderful seeking. 
who was the last person you made
a drawer for? the last 
between-the-ribs shrine
with a lit tea candle? i cover my face
& tell you to try & see me.
i'm at the bottom of one of my mother's
old purses. i am writing about
being struck with a broom handle
as a boy. it is amazing how collision 
is all it takes to become a monster.
& by monster i mean 
a boy. & by a boy i mean 
something hidden even from 
myself. i bought binoculars
& a microscope. when i say "ready or not"
we are always the "or not."
how does one prepare themselves
to be a subject? a submission?
i stood in the middle of the hallway
& let the glass eyes spill
from underneath your bedroom door.
you said, "here i come."