microwave safe

i was made to be heated from the inside.
unevenly & drastically. the boiled heart.
the blazing lung. inside we would walk the plate's rim.
inspect the back of our hands for cancer.
popcorn-kerneling, our skulls burst bright
& white & soft. inside we were held.
carried on saucers. safety is a matter 
of range. knife sharpener as a light saber.
father breakfasting on his feet. shoveling food
with his bare paws. he laughs at his own jokes
& the jokes enter the microwave through
its vents. become sour & mean. we are not even
siblings anymore. we're something more like
mitosis-ed cells. i see my horrors in his horrors.
my mispellings in his teeth. his weeping
in my whirl. an old carousel turns inside
both of our mouths. hunger is the easiest 
form of wanting. a cell of a cell. the microscope
blurred from lack of use. if you're not looking
nothing is happening. sadly, the world is not
a simulation. it's just happening & we're just
trying to hold onto the hem as it walks
to the big bedroom. i love my father most
when i'm being cooked. quickly & efficiently.
then, set to cool & steam. the steam is a reminder
my water is finite. particles gone.
walls unhappily going on. he is done now
& so is the appliance. quiet cool dark.
rooting for the other. you in your knee-tucked dream.
touching the surface of my skin to find 
what has been unscathed. microwave was 
an oasis, you understand? it is better to not know
what will be lost. he pops the door open
like a bottle cap. 

i tell the grass to break the law

no one is looking anyway. the moon blinks
here one huge eye. the dogwoods' spit
all her blossoms. it's heat from here on out.
the grass has plans though. you can see it
in his faces. each blade pocket-knifing 
then limp as if to feign innocence. the grass wants 
to steal light bulbs & siphon gasoline.
grass wants to burry the body. tells rabbits 
where the foxes hide & the rabbits cover
their soft ears because the grass is always
on the side of the predator. if you put
a stethoscope to grass you can hear their plotting.
i sit out in the yard behind the pine tree 
& perform my inspection. pick up the words
"desperate" & "flavor" & "very very soon."
so i deduce the grass is trying to swipe
my mother's shortcake & maybe kill us. 
likely the cake. swallow the blushing cake
into dirt. the worms want nothing to do with this.
but what can you really do about the grass?
it's the fill-in species for every blank space.
sometimes grass grows unwelcome on my printer paper
& then even in my aimless thoughts. 
stuck in his ways. i remember the seed 
we planted when our yard was only mud. 
tiny beige flecks. helpless in their youth.
my father spreading them & told me
to stand back. the sprinkler water they drank.
after all that, just to turn against us.
i lay in the grass & get ears full of chatter.
tell the grass "i want you to be happy."
the grass, stubborn, grumbles at this kindness.
pushes me to the hot asphalt. lights a match 
& throws it towards the porch but it doesn't catch.
when the grass is older we hope it will understand.
a tantrum is coming. but no one is looking, i think
just do what you must & move on. no one made the law.
the law arrive like a scissors one day. 
i tell the grass we can govern ourselves 
if we really wanted. the grass pretends
not to hear. goes about his mischeif
while i head inside where it's safe.
my mother is washing dishes & asks
"did you take my shortcake?" 

jesus meditation

you meet jesus in a parking lot.
he is pushing a shopping cart with 
a whirly wheel & asks you to get inside.
in sunday school, they did these things 
all the time. turned off the lights
& told us to meet him by a river
or in a lush garden. you're not
going to find jesus there. jesus eats
canned tomatoes. his shoes are worn through.
he tastes like pavement. converses mostly
with forlorn pigeons & collects lucky pennies.
he's no longer interested in greenery.
then, they would tell us to tell jesus 
what we were grateful for. i never
followed the instructions. 
i told jesus nothing at all. 
he would get up & leave my meditation 
& let me to scribble 
in my own void space. 
i populated my garden-forest with 
girls & boys i'd want to kiss. drank
from a honey river. jesus folded all his
old utopias into thirds to slip
into his back pocket. there's none left
even to meditate to. you can now
tell jesus what you don't believe in:
demons, eternity, money, teeth, & so on.
he will nod as he pushes you along.
the world will lay on its back.
together you will feed ducks
by the creek. he will tell you 
he has been struggling with doubt.
you will tell him you have been too.
now you can tell jesus what sins 
you hope to commit before you die
& he will nod, sometimes interjecting 
"me too, me too." the older i am
the less i want in a god. you can tell him
your dreams abundance if you feel ready.
tell him what the world lacks & feel
that distance like a looming melon.
you walk so long your soles wear down too.
all the world is told in foot fall. 
light late spring rain. a trash can 
full of paper fans. a dumpster smelling
like oil. the alley way of the alley way.
i used to try to pray but i could only
do it for other people. i made lists
of people i wanted jesus to keep safe 
but protection doesn't work like that.
jesus will tell you he often doesn't even know
how to protect himself. smokes a cigarette
& taps the ash off on the handle. 
you climb out of the shopping cart 
& before you go you ask jesus if he wants
to get inside. the meditations in sunday school
always ended with an instruction
to make promises to jesus--tell him
how you were going to do better. you should make
no promises to gods. instead you should
tell jesus what you wish for yourself.
he will go sit again on a wayward bench 
with the pigeons & say, "yes. yes. yes."
when you leave wave goodbye
from across the street. don't open your eyes.
don't picture the garden or the trees. 

sun & moon

the planets & stars & even the comets
& asteriods & black holes are all trans.
since i fell in love with you i see them 
bold as beach balls blaring through 
every ceiling. the stars gather
like gnats on the windowsill. i feed them berries
from the palm of my hand. 
you make nebulas hungry. you make 
the universe feast. 

i want to be the sun to your moon
by which i mean i want to see your 
ocean-pull & the glow of your face
& know we contain fragments of each other.

at your kitchen table
we talk about particles slipping
through walls like ghosts. you draw
a diagram. i picture particles confetti dancing
myself becoming a wave of light. 

every day i love you more
which is another way of saying i wake up 
& invent new planets to give to you. 
this one is green & expanding. this one
is just a halo. 

if i was the sun & you were
the moon i would still find a way to visit you.
would unspool physical until
there was nothing left but 
our own wanting. my forehead to yours.
a kiss planted on your neck.

you make the whole universe made knowable.
around every corner i find another 
orbit back to you. particles laugh
in their secrets. 

living room camping


anywhere can be a wilderness if you are in love
& it’s raining honeydew teeth. when i was small i would try
to build tents out of leaves & fallen branches at the creek by my house.
once, stole my dad’s bungie cords to drape sheets. they blew open
in the april wind. dismantled wings of a lazy bird.
i tried to sleep there all night accompanied by feral cat ghosts 
& trees trying to plan how much sun they would eat
in the yellow morning. in your living room,
the walls twist with root knots & ivy. christmas lights
bloom into dormant future comments. we practice
new ways to hold each other. first i am a shoe horn 
& then you are a palm full of pebbles & then i am 
the stream made of wood. the rain outside falls harder,
inventing a snow globe out of us. in your closet you have
more tents perched & unfeathered. in my dreams we are
hiking a trail made of sand. the sand spills over & over
but there is always more left. lessons in abundance i’ve learned
in your warmth: there is enough, there is enough, there is
enough. the tent above us remembers nothing 
of rainfall & closes its eyes. i too become a walnut or maybe
a spare button; necessary but resting. my leg over your hip.
your hip a private mountain where even evergreens
grow velvet bark. i’m re-learning what a forest can be.
you only need bodies & a window & maybe
the sweet honeyed coming-june grass. 
deer skulls shedding their antlers. mountain steep & shrugging. 
zip the tent’s mouth shut & we could be peach pits. pearls. pine nuts.
we could be angel sugar. pie crust. latticed.
i kiss your forehead. you smell like new flowers.
outside the birds discuss trunks & altitudes.
a bedsheet in breeze. leaves 
& leaves & leaves.  

superabundant

gallons of milk arrive like angels.
when i love i bring pounds of taffy
& a syrup jar to tap the maple tree.
i take my teeth out on the nightstand 
& wait for them to go jupiter beetle 
in moonlight. once, i drove two hours 
to see a boy for 30 minutes. we sat
on his sofa & i watched him play 
video games. outside, it looked like 
vanilla rain. did not rain. slept humid
alone that night like a wrapped gumball.
hungry, we split the last bagel. i sat
in my car outside for another hour
to make the proximity last longer.
all down his street buses full of brooms
came & went & came & went. i'm scared
of being trans sometimes because i know
my desires are hazardous. i think to myself
should i wear that dress then 
would that make someone want to shoot me?
i have to admit it is exciting being 
tragic. when i love i carry pockets full
of plastic coins. i'm ready to invent
a currency. something achievable.
falls from the sky. emerges from bushes.
i want my lovers to sleep in. i want
a cocoon to hold all my many-hearted worry.
what can i do but walk & wait for the grass
to grin back at me? i like the masks because
they keep my laugh lines from making 
'x's on the walls. overipe citrus &
overipe bananas & overipe toffee & over-
ripe balloons. if i don't use them soon.
if if if. ifs step inside with their
shoes on. when i let myself love
i use boxes. boxes are crucial to 
mantaining a sembalence of self.
here is where my eyes go when i sleep. here
is the step ladder i'll need 
to get down. keep me in your prayers & thoughts.
yes, i'm alright. just too much to keep track of.
i might be driving already for all i know.
on a plane to teal moon. knitting
a canteloupe cozie for when you get home. 
i never saw the boy again. still think
of that apartment though. hours between
& hours between. to be queer is 
to do anything to feel closer. 

honesty box

in the wicker confessional i lit a match
& the priest said, "no not here."
i am prone to drastic. not used to 
a calm farewell to the truth.
once, i wrote suicide notes 
on toilet paper & flushed them. another time 
i scribbled a dead boy's phone number
on the back of my hand for days
until i worked up the courage
to call & leave a voicemail. there's nothing
heroic about the real real thing you mean to say.
soften the blow with fireworks or
tell god you are ready to fall in love again.
dear god, i am not interested in sin.
i want pleasure without the glint or
the barcode. in hell there is a very long 
grocery store line & everyone is trying
to buy ice cream. we watch as it melts 
onto the floor. some lick it up.
i'm not that scared of going to the worst place.
it can't be worse than admitting
how easy it was for me to fog machine
my way into a gender. who was the imprint 
on the window? who walked her knees
down to the creek to practice meditation?
i'm sick with a captial "c." often i think
what about a do-over? then i think 
no no no that would be somehow worse.
i don't hurt the priest. he's not even
really there. he's just a vestment 
hanging on the back of a closet door.
the secret is i don't ever want to fully
recover from catholocism. what if
i need an excorsism? what if i decide
on gold? chalice? blood? it's best to keep
all avenues open. girl in the sacristy
lighting a match & snuffing it out
on her forehead. using bangs to cover
the singe. a mark is a sign you've been
trying too hard to be alive. have you noticed
clear-skin people are partically see-through?
that's because they've got one foot
out the door. there's no more door for me
so i shouldn't talk. i'm firmly in place.
or, at least, firmly enough. 

the bumblebee god

he came to pass each tuesday night last year
in a daze of thrum & tremble. 
offerings balanced in every corner:
nectarines & spare socks & silverware. 
he was my father, i was certain of it.
those coarse gloves. his hovering stagnant 
above the dirt. this was something 
only a father could achieve. proximity 
to intimacy spattered & blurred. 
watched his mandibles working. chewing
sweet sweat from mail man faces. tired from
his all-day yielding honey. worship should be
reserved for rib cages. they're strewn 
in the forever field like discarded jeeps.
rust in the jaw bone from sitting out
in the storm. my father used to 
take a spoon from the cupboard & 
press it to my forehead, telling me
to open. fed me like a baby cicada.
not yet ripe enough for screaming.
we all want to believe are fathers are god.
or, maybe, we're terrified because 
we already know they are. in the old testament,
the bumblebee god squashed the workers 
with his thumb, telling them each 
it was their own fault for not working
hard enough. i know i do not work hard enough.
tuesdays swim past like elephants. 
my father, a sky ship. a drone now.
dropping flowers in the eaves. not taking
my offerings. who feed you now?
whose fruit do you dismantle?
honeycomb crash like dinner plates.
we could have been glass-winged 
& eternal, couldn't we have? the lie is
that thrones are passed down. a god
is a god is a god. a daughter is
a dumbwaiter into the sugar bowl.
she's waiting still for the spoon. 

goat eye garden 

spilled the jar of handle bars 
in the garage & closed the doors.
nothing lush is lucrative. if you look
at the side of a mountain long enough 
you can relearn a new productivity.
a garden isn't just to feed us,
it's to witness devouring. the bees
with their mouths full of gigabites
& the hardrive whirling with hoof &
precipitation. then, of course,
the goat eye weeds that blink with 
a portal knowledge none of us are ready for yet.
trows in hand, we planted baby teeth
& marbles. steam powered moon.
dripping ivy. a tomato born from envy.
weeding with the whippets & their
funny little wire bodies. re-charging
the potatoes using the sun. solar energy is so 1600s.
give me a kerosene flower & i'll put it
right in my hair. i'm not affraid of fire.
growth can mean anything in the wrong hands.
a fire once grew from my temples to my forehead.
ash fell on the lawn. there's an epidemic 
of lawns in this town. one after the other.
the wild plants often come to my garden
for refuge. gossip about ordinary & 
drink thimbles of red. challices 
of fresh warm dirt. we stumble hand in hand
down to the horn meadow to pick
our night's skulls. nothing can be done
about the other wheres but here
i can call you through the button hole.
hold like soft tethering. wait for
evening blinking through the brush.
sift in the reeds for yarn. 

grand prize entry

holding egg plants like children, we waited. 
we had taken our thumb nails & performed numerology
hoping to find unlockable. used shoes
as fire wood to keep the computer listening.
ground water gone purple from bruise-years. 
hope is not a thing with feathers, it is 
something siphoned & dangerous. a rainbow
is always akin to the gasoline cript 
where the great fires wait to be born. we wanted
to want. the almost believed. held tickets 
between our knees. slipped passwords 
under stones. the grand prize was so so mammoth.
we were nothing but sprinkles in its wake. 
our hearts burst like stepped grapes
from asking too much. the things with actual feathers
were doing the dirty work. they flew 
as if to say "yes someone will win."
but never landed. spent the rest of their lives
above ground while we made do and made do.
farmers growing feathers for luck
then eating feather salads at the old wooden table
with the wobbly leg. glass blowers shaping feathers 
& breaking them in the yard afterwards. sliver
of victory, why could this not be something
shareable. split between all the arteries
& left to flow as fish. hovering instead
in the face of the big name machine
who is taking her time to decide a precise
definition of "deserving" before she decides
the who. all that incandense for one person.
how heavy that is going to be. philanthropists
chatter from their vantage in the depths
of the forest where no one can see their wealthy.
i select not to look. the count down will come soon
& i want to sleep knowing less 
than the rest of the universe.