nail art

i don't really want to be soft. 
i want to be a picture frame
or a mounted deer head looking over
the whole world. god once took his shoes off
before he walked into my bedroom.
the tiniest flower. the tweezered ivy.
three years ago i was so in love
i ate fingernails standing in the bathroom
at the house on a terrible avenue.
everyone loves a small [   ]. i could
give you a list of reasons i won't be
coming back. at least there are 
salons in hell i'v heard. it's cheaper too
because all the money catches fire. 
palms of loose soot. 
i'm leaving tips on the sidewalk 
for all the people who met their required
however-many steps we're supposed to take.
motion sensor light in my heart.
lots of men waving like "hello"
when really it's a "never come back."
there's a bowl of daisies i save
for occasions like this where 
i need to evaporate but my blood
is too sturdy. the tests always come back
singing like church nights. who could
have predicted? i hold onto life 
by the pinky. your garden is looking
edible & a little wilted. i used to have
a pen pal who would roll themself 
into a knuckle's worth of words
but then they were gone. empty 
envelops all the way down. when we live
in the same passageway i'll make sure
to give you triumph as you pass.
little gold foil flowers & a turnip or two. 
it's easy to win me over. it's also easy
to get over me. show me your cuticle.
i can be that small. 

fire escape plans for combustable boys

it used to feel inevitable.
smoke rising to the ceiling
& filling my bedroom. pressing a hand
to the door to feel its warmth.
we learned about fire like any other mammal.
where does it live? where does it eat?
how long is its wing span? the beer store 
on greenwich street burnt down
& left nothing but a blackened skull.
i lit small contained trials. a plundered
box of matches to ignite greeting cards,
scalding one corner at a time.
our house was only a block from 
the fire department so sirens were
our neighbors. the jingling rush
of engines in the night like 
bright belled horses. i needed a way
out my window just in case. years later
jumped & landed surprisingly unharmed
from the second story. i gave up my knees
for safety. you cannot hide from a fire.
in the town over two little boys
crouched in a closet & the fire
came to devour them, leaving nothing
but warmth in its wake. a fire should be
treated with intimacy. palm to
a door. smell of smoke. i even burnt
the edges of my hair &, sometimes,
just to prepare, pressed the head
of a match to my forearm. that bright pain.
like talking to the sun. all the hairs
on my body stood. yes, i was 
more prepared than most. secretly,
i wanted to see what the fire 
couold do to us. what it could take.
what it was willing to take. 
then, what would stare back at us.
charred skull. finger bones. ash. 

ghost chickens lay eggs in the yard

i always step on them.
barefoot. yolk between toes. 
the yellow of a bright old summer.
once we had a swing set but it 
died like a velociraptor. crumpled bone.
we shook the structure with our 
little baby-skin bodies. tethered 
to sky. i bruise
like tea leaves. i want to be loved 
loud white egg. gently carried
from carton to chin. the chickens 
no longer consider lineage. now they lay
for comfort. throwing eggs 
at the neighbor's heart. i eat
with my fingers. life dipped in bronze.
baby show boats down the river styx.
i should not be trusted with 
love affairs. i should be given
a time sheet to check into each sunset.
no one is keeping tabs on my 
wreckless habits so i have been trying
to hire a priest. exorcism is in vogue.
the chickens should probably be
holy-watered away but what is life 
without a few demons? every bird
has a smidgen of evil. i don't believe
in binaries except for ripe / unripe.
none of the eggs are ripe. none would be
chicken if cradled to term. 
i once swallowed one whole hoping
to be a chicken mother but instead
felt the egg dissolve between my ribs.
a single feather still lurks there.
the chickens sleep nearly all the time.
we could put up a fence & call them ours
but i prefer them to be free range ghosts.
another egg another. egg in the lawn mower.
egg for a porch light. i hold one
in my palm. still warm. yolk weeping.
i say, "hush, you're only a ghost."

i want to live in your attic

not like a ghost but like a secret bird.
maybe like a music box & on rainy days
just like a holy umbrella. all morning 
i have been mapping routes to your porch.
highways like licorice spin & twine.
my heart is a wax seal & i close a thousand
love letters each more desperate. keep me 
please keep me. i find a box of wedding rings
in my closet. they chatter about the old future.
loud & urgent similies find me for the new depths.
when i step into bed i find the sinking lake.
soon there will be no turning back.
already i knit the months together wondering
when i can be a curtain in your living room.
i have been exhaling on dandelions
in the hopes they'll hear me ask to 
take the mountain apart & put them back
into boxes. in your attic i imagine there's
dusty light & all kinds of beautiful nonsense.
i find fairies laying in wake & a set
of once-loved mason jars. tell me, 
how would you like me to perch? i can be
quiet & still & dormant. your lover is
a volcano. my care is bright & endless
& almost always a little destructive.
for a boy i once parked my car, four-ways laughing,
on the moon. can you imagine what i would do
for someone like you? i make sacrifices 
to the trees: fruits & nuts & incense.
i ask my own bones to have less corporeality.
if only if only i was a pilot & i flew myself
right through the head of your whisks. if only
i was a sleeping person who could not have
to want so combustibly. i will not set
your attic on fire. i will not i promise
but my promises are contingent on 
the direct of the wind. i shave my head
with a cliff side. cry sheepishly
& under the covers so the Gods don't see
how weak i've become. i can be quiet
you won't even know i'm up there. 
i'll train my feet in silence. i'll inhale
only once ever ten or so years. & on a night
when you have no other thoughts but touch
i will be ready for you. not like a doll
or a china set but like a secret bird.

spider plant

i ask to be taught proliferation.
how do you decide an arm should become
another arm? walking future children
on leash. a length of rope
short enough to prevent mischeif.
in high school my friends sat amoung 
spider plants. finger-fed them dead flies 
& removed bug nets from the closet.
all night hunting morsels down
for the garden. barefoot, i sliced my heel
on a roaming dread. here i am just about real
though occasionally i slip into
that old pattern of ghost conversation
where your mouth doubles. question 
& answer. call & response. sometimes
i create an extra hand just to hold 
my heart like an apple on a golden plate.
i'm interested in what it would take
to reach sainthood but not interested enough
to pray. the spider plant never dies
because she has five perfect replicas
waiting just around the corner. i want
to have sculptures of children. little angels
poised around a dead fountain. that is likely
good enough for me. i often say 
"we should" when i mean "i know we won't."
it is better that way. lies can be 
less severe than they seem. in sunday school
i was always fixated on the question of
when it was okay to lie. i invented scenarios 
in which the only correct action would be lying.
the spider plant on the other hand 
has never lied once. he's taking his children 
away from this scene. he's telling them 
the hard truths about the world. you will
grow wild & rancorous just to find another leg
supposedly yours. the pots on the porch.
staring right up at the sun & learning to drink.

the hot air balloon operator's requiem

i used to want to fly fighter planes
but then my eyes turned to olives.
laid on mother's kitchen floor, cool tile beneath 
my spine & asked the sky to tell me 
the secret she tucked behind her ears.
birds would fly in my bedroom
whenever i opened a window. gently, i'd cup them
in my hands like rain water before
pouring them into the yard. lawns are terrible.
my father cared for ours with surgical tact.
i saw him kiss the green once & another time
watched as he tore a dandelion up by her heart.
all day i see souls slip upwards 
like tossed pantyhose. sheer & eager. 
reach a hand over the side of the basket
& feel their air. the first few times up
i had thoughts only of plummet. a plane is a scissors
where a balloon is a ladel. unlike a plane
the balloon lives in the air. i learn to drink
sky's specific colors. sliver of yellow.
freckles of orange. often, sitting on the basket's floor
i dream of flying higher. balloon pressing atmosphere.
balloon prying its gentle way into space.
i have company here. my loneliness breathes
with feathered gills & fire lit under each lung.
if i ever do bring someone along, not a patron
but a friend or a lover, i will ask them
to lay down with me. coil like cloud embryos.
i'll tell you my names for each ghost.
i feel the spaces where buildings used to laugh.
texture of a long dead hawk. tall tree's 
footprint in the breeze. the sky is a new dirt.
finer than sand. fertile. handful & pocketed.
together we will learn to swallow sunsets.
hold hands & kiss messily as storm greys. 
shovel on the ground. you can watch me
dig holes to slip the thinness into. 

meteor diet

waiting on the mountain's lap 
like an already-dead nestling
feathers still wet from shell-breach.
the cars thread themselves through my veins.
pull the needle. hair on my arms.
mom's blue station wagon parked 
sideways. a dor handle. my best friend
& his water-logged eyes. light the candle.
trace the bone. i have been trying to learn
how to eat for this long. are there birds
who eat like this? want to become 
flight itself. my hometown was a button
on my wrist. all the girls grew & cut their hair.
i haven't loved myself. i still haven't
loved myself. this is why i talk to planets
because they don't bother with love.
once, my father saw meteors above his factory.
said he counted nineteen. i thought i was
married when i was that old. nineteen is
a gravestone carver's dream. i bought
a wedding dress & i intend to wear it
when i'm lost sock burried beside 
too many other people. i'm in love right now
which means i can forget about bowls
& replace them with hearts. a bowl is of course
just another kind of heart. i don't want 
to be checked up on. could i try again
i think sometimes. it's a question to god
but god emptied himself into the lake
& now just looks up at his making until
the end of time. one will come soon & it 
will fill me for the rest of my life.
nothing but space rock from my throat
to my ankles. no calories to add up
just the heft of another planet's face
balled up inside me like cotton. i've always wanted
to feel full. not like eating full but full
like the way a gasoline tank can claim 
completeness for the time being. i blow out
the candle & don't worry about the dark.
once i saw the real dark in the pocono woods
but now the dark is just a suggestion
of forks scraping the bottom of a pie tin.
we could go on forever. i hope we do.
i don't want to think about the bird skeleton.
pocketbook beak. i'm not falling i'm just
taking the long way back home to 
a slumped sibling bed. the necklace clasp
is stuck. don't use my spoon. 
there meteor will be here anyday now. 

no one knows the moon's birthday is tonight

not even her. she goes about her duties 
as usual. combs the hair of every field.
sets tea lights in lovers' chests. strums ribs
like mandolin strings. eats a handful 
of galaxy light & licks her fingers clean.
in the oceans her reflection stares back at her 
like a phantom self with its own yearnings 
& its own needs. centuries ago, 
she used to dream, like a mermaid, of legs. 
any legs would do but she especially enjoyed 
the movements of millipedes & salamanders. 
while the sun is responsible for administering exitictions
the moon is charged with the elegies. 
she has sung so many reptiles & insect to sleep.
writes their names on slips of light 
then hiding that light under rocks 
of her surface. tonight she gives a lat lullaby
to two un named insects of the deep amazon.
she sheds two tears which glow gasoline kalideoscope.
if she knew it was her birthday
she would likely only invite venus because
venus has no moons & has always secretly
wanted the moon for herself. it is best
to be wanted desperately. the other planets 
know their birthdays & usually celebrate 
by wishing on the sun. they plead the wish 
all day hoping for his ear. 
he's never granted a wish yet & doesn't plan to.
still, he wants the moon to wish like everyone else.
knows he isn't powerful enough 
to make dreamings tangible. just craves to know
what the moon might want. she no longer yearns
for animal limbs but maybe water. maybe she would ask
"i would like to trade places with an ocean."
but it is only a migratory thought. 
like so many creatures, the moon treats her desires
as passing boats. onward to another stop.
she is older than anyone could count.
celebration is out of the question for 
a being of her age so she sits. imagines rows
of dinner plates. tonight she is a mother
who sets the table each night. her children 
are patient & quiet. she wants to touch 
her own face. watches all the fingers on earth.
earth, what a busy structure. she lays 
on her back & watches sun spots until 
the night is over & it is no longer her birthday.

snake skin

i shed the power switch.
legs gone & planted like windmills.
stockings hung from the poll 
like invitation or banner. a nation 
loomed like a sive. cheese clothe 
for moon rocks. i'm milking all i can
from this reptilian affair. hopscotching 
my scales all the way home to the egg.
a tape measure for judging chicken
from lizard. shucking socks
like skin. sweat thickening to rubber.
bounce ball off bricks until 
the brink is heavy & visible.
taking my fangs out & sitting them 
on the kitchen counter like knives.
ankles escaped & escapading all the way
to the underworld. i'm drawn to 
starting new only in disastrous ways.
deforest the playground & dig 
barehanded in mulch. 
goodbye goodbye & white hankerchief
& dressing room mirror that makes 
you look thin as a branch.
i collect the old skin in mason jars.
float them out to sea via river.
bobbing old carapaces. what's the point
of moisture? in the end 
the dry finds every wallpaper.
curling at the edges. your snake 
[insert intimacy here] is more ready
than ever. fresh playground 
of flesh. i knew green before 
anyone else in nowhere. belly 
to soil. sun on my back.
i'm looking for the perfect rock
to graze across. test the tear.
turn ribbon by the dusk red.
leave another sheild 
melting in the dew. 

butter 

pre-schooled handed we made hole-punchers 
of our mouths. dotted the menu with 
portals. butter is aways waiting
beneath the surface. a few muscles away.
we all pressed fingers to our forearms 
to feel our digits working. pianoed,
i waited for the factory to arrive
like grandfather or a railroad. 
sweetness, like all pleasures, is manufactored
in hell alongside bright orange cows 
& croissant platters. my father drives away
when we take our shifts. his shifts 
is in the bunker with the other men.
he's got blotches on his skin from
spilled grease. i used to beg him
to turn himself in but he said he couldn't.
i will understand when i'm older i guess.
for now there are jars to be filled.
butter to be sung from the faucets
& butter to draw into the right reservoir
for safe keeping. this winter promises
frozen butter on the rooves & smudged
street light. some morning when the cows 
knock at the front door like traveling salesmen
i consider a world without the substance.
what it might mean to talk to cream
in its slipper form. wild butter.
abandoned butter. everyone on my street
is hard at work at any given hour.
there is never enough. the quota is
as wide as a life. what would happen
if we just stopped producing. watched world
melt around us until the trees gasped
in delight at all the lack of productivity.
a signal they heard in space suggests 
butter on other planets even. 
i stand in the yard & pause for a moment
to wave up at them as if to say
we are making butter down here too.