the last ww1 soldier

dear florence green, i tied my skull
to a pigeon today 
& sent it to an old lover.
he will probably no know who it's from.
i don't know why i'm telling you this
but i discovered you on purpose.
i woke up with a need to know
the last surviving humans
of great wars & maybe that's not fair
to determine the width of someone's signficance
based on how long their past could follow them.
i haven't survived anything history-book-able.
or, maybe, it's just impossible
to see our lives as consequential.
do you care about being a woman?
about being the last woman alive 
whose blood remembers 
your particular battelfields?
would it be different, do you think,
if the last rememberer was a man?
i'm not sure, this is why i defer 
to your judgement. i am lucky in many ways. i keep 
all my battlefields in closets & notebooks.
once or twice in doctors waiting rooms
& toll booths. if i live to be 110, 
no one will attach a world to me (i hope).
i think the past will always be 
my greatest lover. i am eager 
to replay a night from years & years ago.
hence my skull delivered by bird. hence my
lingering feelings for once-friends houses
i pass now in my parent's neighborhood.
tell me, has the meaning of the world
"plane" changed for you over time
or do you still see biplanes when 
i say the word to you? when i say "lover"
i cannot picture one person. i can only
see a staircase & a windowsill
& a set of keys on a dining room table.
what i'm asking is, should we 
move on or should we always 
double back? florence, what did you tell
your husband in the cool dusk?
what did you recount & what image
did you save for yourself?
i am prone to slipping finger bones
into envelopes with no return address.
i won't write to you again. i know
you want to sleep now & so do i
but if you have the moment. send
telegraph or phonecall or letter.
answer me however you know how.
it could even be just a photograph.

drawing hands

i used to think i could will myself 
to recreate knuckle & thumb. stare 
long enough at my palms & my fingers
so that when i took pen to paper
i could replica with no hesitation.
my father bought me a sketch book
& i tried over & over. an orphanage
of hands sequestered in turning 
spacious white rooms. float wrists.
sink arms. my fingers reaching & coiling. 
then loose. clasping. in frustration, 
i would often tear a page out 
& then stop before crumpling my lop-sided hands.
then, simply fold & deliver them
to trash can burials. 
later, apart from pencil & pad,
my hands punished me. i folded them
on my chest. watched rise & fall
with each breath. 
from learning to be an altar boy, 
the only rule i remember
is to always have your hand around
a holy plate or a candle and, if not,
then it should be holding the other.
without me, sometimes, my hands would
knot themselves trying to transform
into birds or beings. 
in a mirror, i let them
touch my face with curiosity.
strange how i once thought my body whole
& then, upon inspection, can denote 
so many parts. my skull that asks 
to please recreate my hands 
& my hands, who, being the body's
mischeif conduits, refuse. 

burden 

every day, on a broken scale,
my grandmothers weighed themselves
like orange gatherings or pear pies.
pink tile bathroom. the sink 
crooning hymn or radio. 
still their ghosts come to measure pounds.
i watch from the bathtub where 
i have been trying to shave off a few pounds
with an old razor. you can remove
so much or yourself & most of it
will grow back. once, i carried a backpack
full of stones to forest
to offer the tree spirits 
a little new beauty. crystals polished
by hand. even the trees have scales
these days though. drop a limb.
shed leaves from the guilt.
in middle school we learned
about the egyptian land of the dead
but all i remember is a drawing
of thoth & his golden scales. 
a feather weighed against each person's soul.
ever since then, in preparation,
i collect every wisp i see: cat tail 
& blue jay tongue & bloom petal. 
i want to be able to know 
if i really can thin like an afterlife feather. 
salvation is something measured & recorded. 
my grandmothers know this. they make sacrifices
to the garbage disposal. they leave
the oven door open to speak yellow sermons
into kitchen. i pass through
all of this though knowing
the scale is broken. always reads:
107 lbs. i'm wondering if there is something 
perminantly un-shed-able? our bones weigh
about 20 lbs so it's not just skeleton.
something like memory going golden bird.
rib-caged. how heavy can a voice go?
mine doesn't float in water. sinks 
like bronzed shoes & arrows. my grandmothers
stock closets with rotten chocolate
& christmas lights. i build them ladders 
upon ladders to encourage their final
attic-ing. as for heaven, they tell me
you can only enter through a hole
the size of a thimble. they contemplate
what else they can get rid of. 
shake their heads & take scale turns again
until the sky is greasy with forecast. 


 

shape shifting 

we swallowed plastic bags for lungs.
felt their billow in each passing breeze.
i called us "parking lot" & we waited
for the impending mega bus mirage
to land full of knees. a single goldfish
woke up in my throat. glittered & 
sent me his scales. the first day i was 
amphibial all the water wanted 
was a little kiss but me, i needed
drenching. my gills made of soda tabs.
what does it mean that i spend so much time
switching out organs? a bouncy ball 
for a heart & now a lovely silver bowl stomach.
i'll get bored of them eventually though 
& pray to the dumpster for what else 
i can use to function. when i say 
"recycle" i mean i want to try over again.
hatch in the ether & relearn how to say 
my name. try each toe on for size.
in the asphalt we planted corn 
& it grews into stoplights. blink red-blue.
purple always asks too many 
of the right questions. television host
making promises just for me, saying 
"if you buy this new vertabrae you'll 
believe in god like only children do."
if we could just lay & look at mixed vegetables
making their rounds overhead. let's name
our first child "echo." let her split
in two & spend our time parsing her body 
between the skin & the ricochet.
when the lungs filled with water 
i poured them out in the backyard where
the bobcats have too much free time.
they played games on their electronic devices
& ruined their necks craning to see screens.
bother me please with you dream muscle.
a raft appeared in the middle of a drought
just to mock us. what i would have given 
to ride down artery towards body. 
it's all a series of skin circumferences.
earth needed a hair cut & you & me,
we needed floss & a hammock maybe or at least
a ball pit to land in. don't tell me
you didn't also dream of merging 
with the weeds. up to our necks 
in mulch-fracture. breathing in exhaustion.
we will make brilliant traffic cones one day
or at least stop signs. walking hand in hand
you told me the story about the rat 
& the free clothing bin. then, all night
all i could think about was whether i should
become a rat or rusted vibrant potential.
opened my mouth. let my lungs say "hush." 

CD brother

played prism wheels on the car
on the way home from the emergency photo album.
both in need of haircuts, we talked
about jupiter & her many boomboxes.
you have been trying to convert. i have
been trying to reach the top shelves
to find where mom keeps the extra key.
there is a song that stop playing
only when we put something else in
& a brother who only exists inside
the song on track 14. eating takeout 
from the garbage city. forks twiddling 
in our hearts like antenae. neither of us
are every very hungry but you take liberties 
with air. stretch a breath across 
a violin belly & call it music. stuff night
inside boots & walk carefully
on a little carpet rolled out 
from the ceiling light. you taught me
how to ascend into the popcorn machine.
brain are bursting every other second
in the heat of our faces. the song ends
& it's just the two of us killing time
with plastic bow & arrows. stomaching
the spider dances: waltz & waltz again.
soup can full of lost teeth. 
drinking water from the forbidden fountain 
& feeling freshly sinful. who left
the hose running? well it became
a brief river. dipped in our toes
& kicked the bottom to find
ear buds lodged in the mud. 
my brother & i have too much & 
too little in common. he sleeps
with his hands folded in prayer 
& i sleep with my face off on
the nightstand. crave that dark 
anonymity. plays music from his 
eyes & mouth. endless. jazz & chants 
& folk & gospel. flips a CD over 
& presses his finger to the clear surface
just to hear the sound of his own fingerprint.
asked me i wanted to try & i said
"no way" even though of course
i was painfully curious. instead i pressed
thumb to window. left the print there
& visit it still like a shrine--
a staircase to be obversed but never
taken all the way down.
my brother sometimes snapped CDs in half
if they disobeyed him. left those
color-hungry wings in the garden.
took my shoes off to walk
in that soft dirt & hear those 
fissured songs. brother with 
his tie undone. me with my 
face on the clothesline. counting 
the seconds before the song 
starts over again from the top. 

good son / good fathers 

there is a father around every corner
holding snake neck or bottle-rocket waist.
my fathers are persistent
in the ways they seek alarm.
harvest each flinch for 
some kind of future alchmey.
maybe building the panic machine.
scurry on hands & knees 
to the basement apparatus. down there 
they try to dig happiness out of dirt.
clawing with bare fingers
they run into the shale layer
& give up, just laying there. eyes like
moonstone rings. fingers like teeth. 
i set traps for my fathers:
bear trap & trap door & snares 
& dead falls. too many fathers 
to round up all together
but picking off one or two can be helpful. 
i collect their beer bottles from
windowsills & sometimes discover
a shout or a prickly desire 
seated at the bottom of the brown glass.
once a bottle asked me "are you
my mother?" i wanted to shatter it
but instead i took the bottle
to the emotional recycling plant
where that longing could be 
reassigned to someone else. 
that's all they do. my fathers
crouch & pull & pull until 
their fragiles bursts free,
scrambling for air. i too was
nothing more than a gasp to them.
a sharp question sliced 
between carpet & ceiling. 
i buy the fathers whatever they want:
doritos & all kinds of other potato chips 
& bacon cheeseburgers & licorice. 
it's all kind of my fault. 
i spoil them. can yu blame me though?
there is a certain gravity
only caused by the thought 
"my father might finally see me."
i've been imagining that moment
since i can remember. one father,
it doesn't matter which, will stand 
& stroke my head. call me
"good son. good son" & then slink off
to continue his compulsions. 
as for me, i'll turn a corner
just to be frightened by the different father
but this time i'll laugh with him 
& he too will clap my on the back,
smiling with his fingers before
returning to his work. until then 
i'll proceed with my 
beautiful cautions &
dream of houses with no corners.
just one smooth round room
to spin in. 

metamorphosis

i shout at you until you become
a gummy bear. clear as a window
& lying face up. i'm terrible 
at confrontation. the last voice
i had came from a can & the next one
i'm going to purchase on eBay.
cupping you in my palms, i carry you
to your own little plate. 
i'm very sorry
it had to happen like this. 
this will come undone soon 
when i lose all resolve. i've never
been a sturdy caster. 
what were we fighting about? nevermind
nevermind. afterall, aren't all disagreements
a matter of horseshoes 
& who is holding the stake?
here is a teaspoon of my dirt 
in exchange for your silver shovel. 
let me tell you a story 
about my parents:
they fought like weathering,
like how the Appalachian mountains
are losing their faces
an inch or so at a time
while other mountains still find 
the urge to reach. 
there they are pushing like bird beaks 
into the ripe spring clouds.
i honed this technique to stop
my trembling. i'm told i have
a molten core but haven't seen it. 
apologies apologies. in the sink
there is a bullhorn you can blown into
if you want to make me regret what i said. 
i take back 
my taking back. i meant what i said 
when i promised to eat nothing but sugar 
until you tend me 
like you should. 
here is the ransome letter
for the years you didn't do very well.
i was the gummy bear too. clear 
& mystery flavor. stood still
in fear. pressed between 
a forefinger & index. tell me
what you know about change?
how quickly can you shift
your expectations? i can 
yank the table cloth out
from under my tongue. my door
sheds its lock every single time
i try. watch me. 
clench your fists
if you want so badly to be undone. 
you were good at sugar. you were
a warble in the kitchen. windows
blink. my eyelashes shake 
like leaves. now tell me a story 
about your parents. mine perch
like songbirds on the car roof
i say, "i have to go."
you say, "i need more time." 

easter vigil

i put my night in the machine
like a token-- tell my head
to replay your fingers against 
my arm. i'm made nothing but
a conduit for mornings 
& here i am now
standing in my backyard 
movie projectoring an afternoon
over & over.
i want you closer than any doorway.
above, a flock of geese chatter
& i tell them i am falling in love
with your voice. they squawk 
& talk about salvation. they are 
returning after a long winter.
they are flying in an arrow pointing 
towards the mountain. i tell them
to make sure they rest soon.
in this blue dawn i'm wishing
over & over that i had met you sooner.
i ask: what about january?
what about november? 
in pennsylvania 
each season brings their certain ghosts.
spring has never retrieved me like this.
dew damp against my feet. daffodils 
turning telephone & ringing.
tell me, when will i see you again?
when will i see you again?
for each hour i'm 
hunting dandelions to sustain
the bright you left me. 

the phone company 

the empty phone # calls to say 
"i love you" & i hang up & drive
to the nearest gas station 
in search of a gift. buy three
dust-veiled peanut-butter eggs 
& a pair of sun glasses. 
at home i tie them to a blue balloon
& send them off to the telephone company
in the sky. i wait for the call again.
knit a sofa cover in the meantime 
& try to imagine a mouth
on the other side of the line. 
lips like hummingbird wing-beats.
talking too fast to hold onto.
"i love you" they has said & 
why had i hung up. i was startled.
you wait for something so long
& then its arrival startles you. 
in our houses, we are all waiting
for our phone call requests. some people
want to have long conversations
with grandmothers they don't have.
others want phone sex or to talk
with a long lost son. i just want
the "i love you" & that's as far
as i get. the sidewalk outside 
appears almost walkable despite
the earth's warbling layers.
what i really want to say is
"come meet me. i keep a place set
at my table just for you."
it's true. i do. fork, knife,
plate, & glass of water.
i would make you whatever ration
you like best. i would tell you
whatever you wanted to know
about my phone habits. 
we could give our secret to no one & then,
as you shift started over at the phone
you could just call me & we could
call for hours. you could just
breathe into the line. it would be
almost like freedom. call me again.
call me again please. the phone's quiet
is like a sleeping heart--
like a bird falling from a tree.
did you not want to love me too?
it could not have just been obligation.
i heard the leaning in your voice.
you wanted to come lay down 
with me & never be lonely again.
you wanted to spill through the phone,
warm skin of your cheek pressed
to my cheek. i don't need to know 
your name, i just need you to say 
that again. please even just once. 

1/2 size 

we grew nails from a rusted bush in the yard.
shook it with one gloved hand to watch 
sharp nails of all sizes clatter to the ground. 
in the basement, my father was 
a hammer &, on bad days, a wrench 
or a broom handle. we brought him bowls
of nails & whatever bolts we could dig
from the wet post-down pour dirt.
put our ear to the door to tell if he
was sleeping or working. the constant pounding
of his face against a project. he built
cupboards & clocks & catastrophes & 
cirus podiums & once a series a doll houses
my brothers & i take turns living in. 
often, i wish i was small so i could
fit my whole life in there. instead, i stand
in doll houses that only reach my calves.
there is one a little larger that reaches
up to my waist. i try all the time
to fold myself in half. 
from where i stand the stairwell. 
i hear my uncle, the table saw, 
whirling & clawing at wood.
i'm scared of all the men in my family.
rehearse over & over how to ask my uncle
to sever me clean in two. he often cuts
what my father makes. a little machine,
the two of them. assembling then 
pairing down. how many times could i 
be halved before i'm nothing?
i'm worried i'll become addicted 
to lessening if i try it once.
so, i stay upstairs where my mother
uses her skull to stir a pot of broth.
in my nightmares i become a 1/2 size hammer 
& i sit right beside my father.
smack & smack until i'm toothless
& metal. i wake & wash my face 
in the bathroom. early morning before
even my father has awakened. 
i go down to the basement to see 
the silent materials. just wood 
& nails & a work bench. feel thankful 
it is briefly so silent & wonder if there
might be a hammer lurking inside me waiting
to demand substance & structure
& sons. i walk back upstairs.
shut the basement door & go to
the attic to pace between doll houses
until i find one to nestle in.
the sun is a fire alarm & i hear my father
tumble down the stairs.