in the middle of the night my mother's old flute puts herself together

bone by bone. glint of metal 
in window-born street light. 
a your face in the dark. sliver teeth.
laugh full of air. i tell the device
to go back to sleep & instead
she puts herself to my mouth
& tells me to blow. i'm thinking of 
the light under your door. i'm coming home
to a slice of glow & no one else is you. 
one of my forearm bones
is a flute. i can feel the keys underskin.
the flute is the second most feminine instrument
(right after the violin) & when i play
sometimes my dresses arrive 
one by one at the door. sway & hold sleeves
with one another. other nights
birds come to watch through the window
like a television. it is lonely
to be mature in the dead of night
with no song to request. what did you ever
know about me? i have the sheet music
as evidence. i have a folded metal music stand 
to help the flute make it through. 
i don't miss you at all anymore but i wish 
you could see this.
the flutes have enough whimsy 
for all of us. there is no orchestra.
the orchestra is an old idea
that died with the last frog. 
my mom used to play flute for the ghost
of her dead father until he snapped open
like a locket. i don't mind the past.
the flute wants to make hallways of every fissure.
you are a towel to be folded. i place
a flute on your chest. cool metal touch.
i'm going to imagine you
as an opening to be tongued & played.
goodbye melody & marrow. 
i love you like instruments love
their own sound. like a flute can sound
exactly like humming. all the dresses crumple
& sleep. the flute takes herself apart
one by one. slides back
into her box. i tenderly press keys
beneath my flesh. 

food pyramid in the backyard 

we worship like blood cells.
float in & out of windows.
follow walkway-stones past the big evergreen.
tip-toe talking. who is a real 
disciple? take turns measuring
our grains. wheat barley rice.
our root vegetable knees made 
of servings. dirt is less holy each minute.
we are going to ask the pyramid
for new teeth & new bicycles
& new throats & maybe a new house.
we want to live in a tower
so we can watch every chewing. we want
measuring cups for fingers so we can
always be precise. the pyramid 
wants to save us from our own 
messy tongues. mine once slithered off
& licked the ankles of a God.
burning hot & sour. i need more control.
the pyramid sings like sleet.
hush. not even birds converse
in his presence. what will you do
with your lack of precision?
it's up to you. you can squander
measurement or give in. the pyramid asks
to see our hands to check for callouses.
we walk to the top to retrieve 
our single wrapped caramel 
for being a good child. place the sweet
under tongue & melt away. 
the pyramid has a rule for everything.
shoes should only be devoured
on tuesdays at noon. a lover
should never be allowed to stay the night
if you are both hungry for lard.
i gulp down each wiseness. soon
i will have no worries at all,
only instructions. a piece of fruit
the size of a fist is my heart.
a serving is always 
less than you think. 

blue ink

sign in blue or black ink.
a storm of pens filled the front yard
with cursive tangles. we were
shoveling words for weeks. 
don't do your math homework in pen.
you can't go back from a pen stroke.
sometimes, i would write 
my crushes initials in pen on the back of my hand 
like a branding. all boys are born
with a blue pen in their throat.
who taught you to spit? i taught myself.
once, i left a blue pen 
in the pocket of my shorts & ran them
through the washer. i pulled out 
shirts & pants & boxers all speckled blue. 
it was as if someone was just learning
how to bleed. if you press too hard 
for too long the ink will
bleed through the paper & into your life.
a mark on the desk. a scuff 
hovering in the air. i want to feel 
permanent sometimes, don't you?
i should resist this, but i want
to be loved permanently. not like a wedding
but like a body of water. 
i tripped in fifth grade
holding a blue pen & the tip dug
into my palm. i still have the mark.
a self-tattoo. little corner
where i'm harboring my blue. 
writing, i checked my hand
to make sure it was still still there
& not just a dream. lately, all my dreams
are written in blue. water is blue
because the sky is blue or so 
my second grade teacher said. we should
be more skeptical of knowledge. 
my planets rotate around lovers
no a sun. i'm unconvinced i should 
be worried about contracts i sign.
what is a few hundred words. 
take my blue soul. take my blue mark.
all i have is a few fingernails anyway.
blue is always an expanding color
even if it takes awhile. like, for instance
those blue stains spread until
my entire apartment was blue. i had to leave.
i packed my non-blue things
& ran in the late afternoon.
my bruises have always been 
more purple than blue or black. 
there isn't enough pens to tell you
what i want to tell you. love, please
get away with something. write
me a note on the wall. next time it rains 
fish the blue from the streets & save it.

job alert email

buzzfeed wants you. god wants you.
the sidewalk has a use for your teeth.
soon, we will find a place to package you up
& ship you out. hourly jesus. 
your fingers would be good at typing 
recipes into spread sheets. what kind of mother
could we use? when you were young
you used to dream of being
a movie director. with you camera 
you would write half-stories & point
to your neighbor's mouths. you could be
a stop sign or a sailor. talk to your local 
army recruiter about fulfillment.
ask the trees on your block how long
they're been knitting the clouds.
there's a fellowship on jupiter
for diverse people & you contemplate
how long you could stand to be away 
from your father. there's several openings
at the new wendies. you could go to school again.
you could learn a skill like electrical
or plumbing or makeup. we're looking for someone
with less pairs of earrings & one more
wasp tattoo. you count your years
of communication experience back  to preschool
when everyone agreed they wanted 
to be spies. does anyone become a spy?
there's no spy job advertised 
on Indeed but if there was you would apply 
for the sake of it. who is reading
these resumes? sometimes you feel like
there's a big office in the sky. 
no one wants your small talk & your huge 
swallows of coffee. you could just say
"i really want health insurance," & hope
for the best. the morgue is hiring
a receptionist but you're over qualified
& besides it only pays 8 dollars an hour.
you are not sure if you are really 
worth more than that. what could you do
in an hour? you direct a movie
using only a stink bug on the window.
the stink bug has a 401K. earlier this year
your dad dreamed of working at a new, cleaner factory
but he was too old. you look for 
a factory for him & find nothing 
but a shoelace store. send five resumes.
practice speaking truth in the mirror.
decide which name to apologize with next.
eat a knot of hair from the drain 
& point your camera at the dark moon. 

box of lures

our fingers smelled like rubber & fish oil
as we laid his lures out on the carpet.
we were eight years old & both had 
soft hamburger-bun faces.
green wriggling creatures 
& smaller wide-eyed fish:
their bodies brandishing clean sliver hooks.
he told me he'd never gone fishing before
but that his father let him play with the lures.
i held one in each hand & closed my eyes,
said i was waiting for a great sky fish
to take the bait. we found coarse craft string
& dangled the lures out his bedroom window
trying to catch fathers or fish.
the river knocked on the bedroom door
& asked for our palms. we opened them 
& it placed there little tiny humans.
not dolls, but miniatures of ourselves.
pink & soft & still. i sympathize with fish--
how they bite down expecting flesh 
& receive wire & plastic but 
cannot let go of that mistake. we too have been 
ripped from where we used to breathe.
we caught nothing that day but one bird 
swooped past his lure. we mused about
what we might do with a cardinal in the house.
in another room his parents ate hard boiled eggs 
& took off their socks. the hard wood floors 
were cold & wobbly. fish were all around.
in the mirrors & the windows & between
our teeth but always just out of grasp.
never pinned down. we put the lures back
& i asked, "can i keep one."
he said, "no i need them all." 
so i slipped on in my pocket &
carried it with me 
in case of future fish.

appetite 

i took a bite out of my childhood
& it tasted like watercress & windmills. 
all the forks slithered away like snakes
on their silver bellies.
i once had a cup full of moon moaning
but spent it on the wrong kinds of boys.
now, i wake up to remind the sun of my name.
nothing to be afraid of. we washed 
our faces in the morning glaze.
my father wore his shoes to threads
until his bare feet burst through
leaving print in the snow.
what do you know about mouthfuls.
i want to be stuffed to the brim. i want
to be so so full. my best friend
pinched a wall of our house
& tore off a chunk to take a bite.
she spit the piece out in a napkin.
how do you learn to taste 
only what you want to & leave
the rest. my palette is ready 
for metal & misinformation.
i don't trust my memory. no one else
was there but me so i have
no one to corroborate the following images:
me as tiny as an ant munching on sugar me 
skating on the rim of my mother's wine glass me
slicing cheese as thin as paper
as holding it up to peer through.
no told me i was going to keep 
having a tongue. i used my teeth
like wind chime planks
& let the gust do what it wanted.
once, my brother & i microwaved 
a golf ball & chewed on the fresh surface
until we almost believed it was cake.
i want to trust in my own urges 
to eat nothing but sweets until i die
but i'm told i should be more balanced
with my hungers. we would walk out 
into the back yard & share 
a ladle of soil. pluck out the worms.
there was never quit enough.
the hole of each bagel widened 
like the sky eating the earth.
we ate with our eyes closed. we wore spoons
as necklaces. i sat on a plate 
like a little or devour. 
the oven preheated herself
to the temperature of a nervous face.

salvation is waiting at the back of a Hot Topic

i paint my nails black in my sleep.
kiss a window. break an 8-ball.
i woke up in 2010 & went back to sleep.
the sun was brighter & the global warming
had less of a grip. snow tasted 
less like metal & more like foliage.
the mall was less of a cathedral 
& more of a mirage. i wanted time 
to leave me alone. 
do you want to forget being sixteen?
when i was sixteen i wanted to forget
being sixteen. my skin was softer. 
i ordered blue color contacts on Amazon.  
i used to hope i could make
one of the Hot Topic sales people
fall in love with me if i stayed long enough.
asked the right questions. one pink haired boy
folding band t-shirts in the corner.
i had an extra eye & one less knee.
i stole pins-- filled my pockets 
with their little poems. 
my friends were all trying to smoke
on a porch. a roof was a flyleaf page.
i put on fingerless gloves 
to feel the texture of every shoulder.
stared at the case of body jewelry 
& considered where else i could
put holes in my skin: an earlobe, a belly button 
the arch of my eyebrow. 
filled my stomach with neon belts.
stared up at a galaxy dress
& dreamed of being a specific kind
of muse. made circles around the store
picking up & putting down items.
mostly, not buying anything but feeling like
there had to be something i was missing.
some other jacket or dress or shirt
that could make me feel punk. 
outside the store, everyone in the whole mall
was eating a pretzel. i sat on a bench 
& cradled a flip phone. planned to dye my hair 
purple. planned when i could
come back again. all my friends
with their black boots. my bare feet 
on linoleum. laying in bed & staring up
at the bunk bed lattices. 
good morning again, it's 2010. 

the zoo is closed

the last species exited through
a hole in the sun. ate a palm's worth
of cheerios & cut the chord.
lizard ghost shadows skitter
across the bathroom floors.
i am here to kingdom myself.
or, was i supposed to meet someone?
all the keepers have gone to heaven
& left their boots & their shovels.
when i was little i used to want
to fall into a lion enclosure 
& see what would happen. now, i sleep there
& futilely hope for their return.
when i say i want to be devoured 
i mean piecemeal. one limb at a time.
you know they can't keep sharks
in captivity. they go insane & die.
here is where the giraffes used to
whisper-talk with god & next door is where
meerkats dug holes to hell. 
i want to evolve faster. coat of fur.
maybe a tail. maybe a long hibernation
i could wake from & forget
most of the terrible things. 
in the giftshop i pick out trinkets
i would give to the monkeys. 
windup toy. claw. bouncy ball.
you know i wish we'd stayed like that.
yes, i know we weren't actually monkeys 
but imagine how soft a life could be
in a world of orangutans. 
maybe i'm idealizing them. maybe we would always
find modes for cracking terrain open.
once, i saw the moon cry. once i saw
the moon bleed & collected 
the thick blood in a little mason jar.
if i could see the animals in their cages
one last time i would release them
& let them destroy whatever they wanted.
take apart street lamps.
nibble on clouds. we all need
a release. on all fours i roam
the bear enclosure & try 
to remember what an afternoon
is supposed to feel like. 
i used to meet people. i used to 
eat from their palms. we used to
trade favorite animals & dream
about future cages. now, 
only the floors remain & i am 
just a fixture. i slip into 
the bird cages to search for
a single yellow feather
i can melt for butter.
i find none but i do see
snake tracks. smooth traces
pulled through the sand. 
i could get used to life on my stomach.
come visit me. i want to be
peered at. i wanted to be
all your boxed up dreams.
bring feed in a plastic cup. bring 
a necklace to snap at the crux.
what animal do you want to be?

the walls grew pears 

sugary & ripe, despite no one having planted.
a miracle. our wallpaper had been dead for years ever since
we forgot to sing to it through winter. when was the last time
you tried to keep something alive? i don't do a good job
with myself. sometimes when i forget to eat i make up for it
by swallowing a pebble. we put my brother in a terrarium 
when he was no longer capable of tilling the carpets.
fed him fish food from a tiny spoon. i would make
a pretty good lizard. press your face to the glass
& inspect my scales. who is measuring the passage of skin?
around the dinner table we discussed what kind of farm
we could have next year. i wanted to grow puppies
& they all want to grow hemp. we planted black beans
& hoped for the best. nothing sprouted. july ate june.
august ate both october & november.
we forgot who was supposed to be a son 
& who a father & who a grandfather & who a girl.
still nothing grew. we roasted fragments of asphalt
& repeated the word "farm" over & over until
it was strange & viscous. the truth is i always wanted
to have an orchard. i prayed for it once or twice
so maybe this was an answer from god. only, i'm not sure
if i believe in answers. all fruit is divine though.
i plucked the pears before they syruped & mashed
on the living room floor. cradled them like
puppies. little creatures waiting for a bite.
waited for a new sun to be born so we could
talk again of planting. i have swallowed 
so many seeds i rightfully fear a tree
tearing me in two. when it rains, i wrap myself
in a plastic cover & stay out of sight. 
the pears were sweet & needed to be eaten
right away. no time to forget. no time to question.
feast on top of feast. i even gave a piece
to my terrarium brother. his amphibian face
blank & dazed as he chewed the honey-sweet fruit.
i wished we could trade places. i wanted to let
my brain turn to sand. i am afraid of roots
in the walls & roots in my wrists.
cut the moon out to use as fertilizer.
who should be the mother this time around?
i ate so many pears my skin turned green
& slipped off. my own black seeds in the soup.
the others found them & pocketed my futures.
dried them on windowsills.
& still, now, they wait for the right
deluge to slip them between the floor boards.
i can't wait to be an orchard.

christmas / flesh

that year the tree was juicy.
i filled its basin with blood
each morning like a good boy.
steam poured from every arm.
meat feathers after a good slow roasting.
forks in our pockets.
i didn't hope for much. we were 
sacrificing for a nice ripe citrus.
gifts in their rinds. prayed to 
the butcher for righteous tender.
felt our arms & the cuts latent in them.
all the knives shivering 
in the drawer. me & the tree
discussed ovens & heat. discussed
damnation & sin. i hoped the tree
would keep my secrets. 
i told him i dreamed of
feasting on boys. opening my mouth
& letting them walk inside me, whole. 
the tree mutter my story
all day long. turned my fears
into apples & cannon-spat them.
bore a hole in the wall 
through which we all took turns
walking out to the backyard
where the bones go. i wanted 
something new. i wanted icing 
or at least a slice. 
everything melted & we wept 
for men. our hooks smiled
in the moon's glint. 
how do you learn to stop wanting love?
i tried to hold each wish
in my throat before they could turn 
tender & fatty. the butcher
knocked on the door with the butt
of his knife. laughed like
a hinge. praying is dangerous.
my brother prayed himself
into a white meat breast.
we filled our socks with sausage.
nothing was warm enough. 
tired of the truth we 
roasted fingers one by one
as a sacrifice. what will you give?
wrapping steaks 
in the backyard with plaid paper.
everyone will be thrilled 
for the surprise. no boys arrived.
not a single one.