autobiography of a 7th grade vampire

i put my fangs in one by one
in my grimy bathroom mirror. wrapped a chain
around my neck. put ear buds in 
& listened to screamo music i didn't really like.
halloween came too quickly that year. we had
a test in biology on plant cells. 
all my vesitcles carried blood 
like tea cups around my body. 
i had too much skin & fat. i imagined 
my bodies processes as i walked to school
in a black leather skirt & torn leggings.
wanted to be truely undead. 
where would i hide in this town?
i would use the old limestone kilns
by the creek as cripts. cross my arms
over my chest & sleep away the sun.
there would be no more memorised structures 
or equations or locker rooms where girls
inspected each other's stomachs. 
face painted dollar-store makeup white. 
some smeared on my hands. i was coming apart
already. wiped my palms on a patch of dead grass.
black lipstick. black fingernails.
i would have to feed on squirrels 
& field mice. even this sounded easier
than hallway-shoes & mouths beating
like bat wings. i loved nothing about my body
for a whole year & more 
but in the costume 
i felt possible. like, in the future
i might hold a then intangible power.
outside, on the walk to school, all the trees
were still performing photosythesis
& the grass too probably. i always thought of it
as little hands scoops sugar
from the sun & stuffing it into thousands 
of miniature lips. i wished i could
feed myself like that. i thought about how vampires
are kind of the opposite of plants. we had to take 
what was not readily replenished.
we had to feed in a way that was
irrevocably detructive. in homeroom
i folded my hands on the desk. winced 
at the orange sun brimming through 
the wide classroom window. wishing
i was immortal. the bell rang.
i forgot the names of half the plant's structures
& just wrote "blood" over & over.
after school i tried to turn into a bat.
but instead followed my thighs
back up the street & across the field
to my home by the corn fields
to take off my face. i could hear
the leaves eating their last bites
before turning red & orange & brown. 

pig heart

pigs swelled like apples
in their fields & thought nothing
of college degrees or science.
they told each other secrets
about teeth & sky. dug their names
in the dirt with hooves.
freshman year of college
we dissected pig hearts
in pairs. i was wearing a white dress
that showed my shoulders.
it might as well have been
a wedding. the organ before us
felt cold. almost a statue.
we did this for Descartes
& his pondering. pages & pages
of heart-thinking. i held
the organ steady while my partner
made the cuts. are humans
the only animals who inspect
like this? with careful precision
&, at the same time, with complete
uncertainty. i can tell you very little
about a pig heart other than
the heft & the bright color.
elsewhere, the pigs
take their curiosities to the ground.
pig study noise & tuck each thought
under tongue. pigs are great
at keep secrets even after death.
i was terrified of the heart.
the world felt red & cold.
i wanted to be full of preservatives.
i wanted never to be pried open
like this. in my dorm room that night
i washed my hands in hot water
until they turned red.
let the lamp light pull my shadow
long against the ragged carpet.
out the window i glimpsed
only briefly, the ghosts of
all the pigs running laughing
on the college green.
i closed the blinds & considered
how all surgeons clothes
are that frothy green just like
the sheet they gave us for the heart.
in the morning the pigs were gone.
i saw their hoof prints & they saw
my hungers.

umbrella

we drank rain from sidewalks.
tongue to concrete. deadly thristy

from walking to mercury & back
in attempts to prove love.

that whole summer was about
confirmations. is the sun really

a pinwheel? is the window really a window?
are you my lover? is this water

laced with sugar? 
is the umbrella real?

i taught you how to blink
& you taught me 

where the weather came from.
you said your father was a cloud purchaser:

he carried pennies & fed them
to the dirt to barter for storms.

meanwhile, in the past, at the umbrella farm, 
the children went to see them sprout

kneeled in the mud & noticed
tiny umbrellas as they peeked

through. some with wooden handles--
some cheap & plastic. april was such

a ratification. the umbrella we bought
needed more time in the soil.

turned inside out at the slightest noise.
we took turns. me saying, "here you 

hold it" & you saying "no you."
the rain holding still in your hair

like jewels. the rain soaking through
my shoulders. a shiver entering

at the base of my spine. wanting 
to want to hold your hand again.

yearning for a dry morning where the grass
was all dead fingers. you should have

called your father & told him
to plead for snow. beg on his knees

for a summer blizzard to hem us together.
rain is known for causing gospel.

not even the weather knows 
what to do with blood. inside the apartment,

the umbrella wilted outside the door.
died & you blinked too many times

& i peered out the window all night.
at the umbrella farm, the newest crop

was too large to be sold. monsterous umbrellas
shadowing everything for miles around. 

glass infection

it began with a the basement stairs,
once wooden little tomb stones 
now turned glass. one step at a time.
foot on slick surface.
i peered right through
to the dusty floor where 
neon mice trade raisins & broken
christmas ornaments slowly disintegrate.
i told no one. often we think 
an impending tradgey is best kept
as contained as possible. i dreamed
of the coming glass as i watched
my mother knit gloves on the couch.
of course we have regular windows
which i pressed my hand to. 
winter has been coming for several years.
next, glass in the bathroom. glass tub.
glass floor looking down into 
the living room. all my family
staring up at me & my bare feet.
we blamed each other. dad raged.
he said the kids had brought the glass
from all their Google-searching.
my brother blamed me even though
he wouldn't speak it aloud. the family queer
is always a cite of illumination:
an eye piece towards if & how
each person wants to see another.
i was easy to blame because my bedroom
happened next. sometimes, they watched
me sleep. my little glass cage.
head lights from the street blaring
through the glass. walls rounded.
i lived spherically. my friends told me
to just leave but i believed
i could show the walls how to harden again.
a secret is just another kind
of glass. after that it spread quicker:
hallway then kitchen then parent's bedroom
then the outside. everyone could see
through us to the other side. 
birds smack into the siding & pieces
shattered like wine glasses.
watched my mother press her face
to her bedroom wall. watched my brother
sprawl out on the floor like a star.
i went down to the basement
to try my own remedies: poems 
& stories & a camera flash. nothing.
amplified feet. a warped flute.
it was me all along though. we are usually
several contagions at any given time. 
i left & the walls inhaled. i stood 
in the driveway & looked 
at the structutre's solidness. 
i crave the glass. it lives 
in one of my fingernails. 
a littled latent
cathedral wall. when i visit
we gather in the yard like birds. 
pretend the house isn't there. 

toy store ouija board

a marionette asks me how old i am 
& i reply seventeen minutes. 
all our fingers are trapped 
in finger cages. the pinwheels
can't handle these gails & 
our bubble wands are bent from blowing.
everyone assumes a toy is a frivolous thing.
no object is more alive. two minutes ago
i was swallowing clouds & trying
to be a teddy bear. or, in other words,
trying to be a man's shelf sleeper. 
i wanted to wait patiently for touch.
a toy is a cite of miniaturing 
or make-realing. i believe in wooden tops
& doll house murders. the toy shop 
teems with unfulfilled 'maybes'.
we take out the ouija board
first to contact our grandfathers 
& then to ask the other side 
how to stop being so bloody. 
hands hovering so close to touching.
bumping each other's knuckles. 
nothing is just a toy because especially
a ouija board. the windows shake.
the adults melt like wax statues.
here we are so close to a truth.
yes or no. spell the future for me 
my plastic dream slate
"T-O-M-O-R-R-O-W." 
we sit & wait for ball-joints
& synthetic hair or at least a wooden heart.
all i really want is to be 
grasped in one hand like an implement.
play with me soon. 

rental car

is everything splendid borrowed?
you let me read your Rita Dove books
& i didn't write in them
knowing i would have to return 
each cracked spine to your shelf. 
your room smelled like cactus candle 
& brushed teeth. the window laughed 
flecks of car tire alley way.  
do you miss what you took from me?
i miss miss removing your shirts
from the laundry bag before you got home.
i would wear them like dresses 
& then place them back, fumbling 
to fold them as they came. last autumn
when i was a made of different
less vibrating molecules
i rented the car i drove to my parent's house. 
grey rain spit water constellations 
on the wind sheild.
the radio came in clear as a knife.
i plugged my phone in & played 
Death Cab for Cutie's Plans from start
to finish. i pretended 
the car was mine even though i only had
four days with it. i forget why
i even came home. the drive from 
New York to corn field Pennsylvania 
dwindled me to nothing but urges.
i wanted to stand in the backyard. i wanted
to walk the dog all the way over 
the waning moon. staring at the car 
in the gravel driveway, it looked terribly
out of place. all shiny & white &
fresh. the insides smelled translucent.
the headlights cut holes in my father.
i said i missed you when i didn't.
i was only thinking about missing the car
& missing this american gasoline freedom.
in my parent's house, we wear couches down
until their stomachs touch carpet.
i do the same. let my shoes come to pieces.
sand my heart down to a mirror. 
i took my brother on a ride 
around the block & i considered
car dealerships. all their newness.
i envied all steering wheels.
you were at home toe-deep in 
your own private encyclopedias 
& maybe sitting by your window. i missed
your ankles. i missed your closet.
tragic ride home. goodbye beautiful life.
the car key like a talisman. you can 
come in & out of love with someone several times
just on the same highway. my life still fits
in back seats of cars i don't own.
turned the radio into a boy &
let his voice lie to me. i gave back
your books one by one without telling you.
in the morning, i dropped the car off
& walked home up Jericho Turnpike
that dreary monday. car horns squawked
like tired old birds. 

distortion 

let's run between cars on 5th avenue.
headlights like quarters to spend
on the afternoon heat machine.
once we werre racing on the new jersey turnpike
& we should have disintegrated but didn't.
sever the radio into equal fourths.
one for you one for me. car legs
warbling like song birds. 
i hung the stop light around my neck
to make you laugh. red comes
like a wide afternoon. you tell me
to read your lips in the honk
of the dead birds. all i can see
you saying is, "maybe maybe."
your teeth are doors i want to pull open.
we play tag in the tremoring city.
no one has eyes anymore. we are using
magnificent implants that only show
obejcts that smell pleasant.
there aren't enough trains so 
only glossy people come & go. 
in the rear view mirror our 
mothers are singing without sound.
the pigeons are in the trunks
we have to let them out. a simple lock
stands between me & a love poem.
staring into the car-blur i can almost see
an animation of a balloon leaving
a boy's hand. in the morning 
all i want is the right spoon.
at night, please give me someone
who worries about yellow as much as me.
the tv stopped asking questions
& now is just an eye piece. 
i perescope through lunch & catch
a glimpse of tomorrow 
i wasn't supposed to see yet.
i love ruining surpirses. do you miss
the sound of the can opening?
a stray dog bites a lamp post down.
none of us are flattened
but all of us are unrecognizable.
mirrors spit us back out & fold 
like pocketbooks. there's a wild
20$ bill in the bush or
is that just a kiss of weed? 
tell me, what is it you want to see
less clearly? i want to stand
on either side of the street 
as cars crackle & spit & try 
to say your name 
while you try to say mine. 

autobiographia literaria 

i wrote on only the first page of notebooks
then crumpled the inky sheet 
to stuff tangled letters into my mouth.
swallowed & laid on my back.
i looked up so hard i bore a hole
through the ceiling of my childhood bedroom.
watched the clouds go zoological. 
my teachers made paper airplanes
of my stories & sent them out the window.
in the school yard i took stick to dirt
& wrote my name over & other
just to cross it out. 
one line through the middle.
i lead seances in the "handicapped" stall 
of the elementary school bathroom.
made sigils on stickie notes.
pretended to be smoking as i breathed
out the sharp january cold. 
sharpie hearts & stars drawn
on the back of each hand. i wanted
to feel perminant. found a dead bird 
under the boy's tree & held 
a little funeral complete 
with dandelions. when i stared
at chapter books the language
turned to escalators-- each letter
sliding across the next. 
bought dollar store peanuts
to feed to park squirels
each of which i named & had
a back story for. louis left
the circus. eleanor used to be
a cobbler before she was tranformed
by a witch. watched the squirels 
crawl back into their hollows
worshipped salt & microwaves. 
licked my fingers & spoons
& plates. walked out in the yard
at night & kept secrets between
me & the moon. got obsessed 
with constellations & then wept 
when i couldn't find them.
if anyone called for me in that dark 
i would hide & say, 
"i am no one at all." 
burried my poems at the foot 
of the yard's big evergreen tree
next to goldfish graves & spare stone.
kissed them goodnight 
& promised to return in the morning
with new adjectives 
& ways to say "blue." 

the binding

i want to be your ram.
cut me into parcels of meat 
& pixel. the sky is a screen saver.
refresh me until i spin. 
my father used to take my down
to the creek & raise a butcher's knife
over my head. he told me it was 
a dove. i see birds as weapons.
the altar in my house gallops 
across the floor.
we wrestle for holiness 
in the midnight's simmer. 
i can tie myself up like 
a package or a promise. i make
a great sacrifice. i won't even
scream. the lord is typing 
in his study on the lead type-writer.
he's pounding out promises
& particulars the day to come.
we bought hand cuffs 
from the dollar store. grey plastic.
swallowed the keys & ran off
into the wild woods without hands.
my father wore binoculars 
around his neck to keep tabs 
on his livestock. a boy is a kind
of mosaic. the trees turning 
to cord & rope. rope tangling us.
us, the little pairs of legs.
often the sun is the biggest
betrayer, painting all your secrets
in light. father glimpses us
as we found hollows to store
our hooves in. called us back
with a push of a red button.
the siren was a girl twisted tight. 
he never kept the knives in the drawer,
he laid them out on display 
from smallest to largest. i wanted
to lay down between the knives.
i want to be your ram. i already know
where my body will come apart.
i'll show you were & how to dismantle
if you tell me i was a good animal
& i tried my best to plug in. 
kiss the static from my eyes.
i want to be your beautiful viral.
there's no such thing 
as sons. 

pillar of salt

i stood like a stop sign 
& watched the leaves turn static.
stopped eating any slices 
& took to prepparing for fires. 
the punishing god is my favorite
because he makes sense & acts
just like my father. 
in summer, i was a little girl 
barefoot in my television-watching.
the news is a kind of city.
bumper to bumper dreaming. a stop light
dangles around my neck. we used to
talk about the future 
like a vegetable-can on the shelf.
i pried the morning open with 
my teeth. scrolled past radiation dances 
& a mouthful of rubber. my car
went belly-up in the poison. 
my brothers merged into one.
i told myself to look at beautiful things
like nail polish jars & sticky notes.
the street flooded to the window.
my partner became a blue balloon.
everyone stopped believing 
in water. i should have dug a well.
i should have sewn a quilt
from single-socks. i should have
focused on my hands--inspected 
each crease & fold & found
the future teeming there but i looked
& looked & looked. i saw 
computer screen dazzle & phone mirage.
invented new kinds of burning.
i saw neighbors shed clothes & honk 
at the sun. i saw the trees
shave their legs & the year
tuck its chin to chest & rolled
far away from grasp. tasted 
the salt of my own skin. 
god commanded me "hold still
& look."