a list of past lives

i'm harvesting foot prints 
from the mud with a pair of pliers.
my brother was a dinosaur.
likely from the cretaceous. we discuss
what kind of humans the dogs were:
edward lived as a potter by the ocean
& gertrude was a black market trader.
you can tell a lot about 
an animal by watching 
how they fall asleep. my father
paces the living room 
holding a beer like a telephone. 
mom holds a phone like a daughter.
we have nothing to 
prove to each other anymore.
i take the footprints to my room
where i frame & hang them.
call each a "self portrait."
i hope i was a painter once
or at least a sculptor.
a poet is a not-quit artist.
sometimes i believe i could
throw myself off the side 
of a bridge
& possibly fly. was i a pigeon
or a man? once, i jumped
from my bedroom window 
& exploded in a puff of feathers.
i cleaned myself up.
i told no one. it's taboo
to confess you've discovered 
a past self. for instance,
i was kissing a boy
when i divulged "i lived 
as a silk worm." he nodded 
& kept kissing me. i wish he would
tell me his. the footprints 
always evaporate by morning.
someone doesn't want to reveal
where he's been.
i used to go & go & go
& now i just look out the peephole
& dream of a future self
who owns a tiny home 
or who eat whatever licorice 
she dreams of. or, best of all,
maybe a microscopic creature.
a lonely poet. spinning words
in a language only he knows
& then swallowing. 
i am looking forward 
to june but not july. 
soon, i will count the legs
of the sun & the rings around
my father's eyes. 
i ask a mirror
where are we?

aunt flo's shower

the summer i stayed with my great aunts
was as hot as a white flowers:
daisy & lily & finished dandelion.
their un-air-conditioned house
widened with humidity
like a great sponge.
i had five hangers in the closet 
& the rest of my clothes 
sat crumpled at the bottom
behind sliding wooden doors. 
i cleared a shelf in the fridge 
for my pudding & jello. stole a spoon
& a bowl. i regret treating my aunts
like ghosts as they moved
in their same patterns day after day.
watching with distant awe.
their wrinkled skin 
like silk curtains. 
radio at 6am. coffee machine babble.
i came home from work
in the middle of a soap opera 
where everyone was white & desperate. 
sometimes, we ate little sundae cups
on the AstroTurf porch. the aunts 
watched the sidewalk as 
children ran on licorice legs.
i noted layers of dust on the windowsills 
& on the bookshelves & even
angel statues. one night
aunt mary's pink shower overflowed 
& i had to use aunt flo's.
i stepped into her little bathroom.
blue title floor & walls.
mirror hung too high. 
only seeing half my face: nose up. 
i imagined how many days she's spent
preening by the glow
of one tired bulb. undressing,
i felt watched. cautious, letting
the water wash off the sun's grit.
that summer was so so short
& so so long. cool blue tiles
under my bare feet. 
my aunt flo & aunt mary
on either side of the sinking sofa
drinking coffee 
& waiting.

child-bearing 

my neighbor has a pocket knife
he uses to whittle trees into children.
he starts at the top
removing each limb one by one. 
the branches fall
as arms. elbow & all.
piles of limp forearms in the grass.
beneath dirt, their toes curled
like beans.
i watch from my adolescence-window
as he brings them each meal.
ladles soup down their throats.
warm biscuits & sometimes
a caramel. the tree children
ask him every night 
when he's going
to pull them up
& let them run away. 
the children dream of drinking
from rivers & writing a name
with chalk on the driveway.
after the limbs are removed
he works the torso.
thrusts into the tree's meat
working & working until
the figure starts to emerge.
for him, there are never enough children.
at night, in his house, the neighbor
reads alone. he opens a bible
but doesn't believe. likes the routine
of the passages. dog ears
the ones about salvation.
looks out the window
at the tree children 
as they try to sleep standing up.
then, looks across the way to me
& our gazes meet for a moment
between the glass of both our windows.
he doesn't blink. he nods
& all night i dream 
of being one of his trees.
my own father is working 
on a bottle cap machine
& my mother is knitting
a cozy for the moon. i need a man
with a knife to make me
a child again.

i jumped off the top a rollercoaster

became a flying saucer 
& observed. took a polaroid picture & watched
as it flickered moth-like 
towards the sun. 
the earth combusts several hundred times a year.
impenetrably hot, the day ached
from every corner. we'd held hands
& talked of asphalt-cooking 
our own eggs. a line to see 
god got longer & longer. you had a ticket
but i had a face for eluding judgement.
we ate french fries off our knees.
a carousel slowed to a halt 
& all the animals snapped their bridles.
have you ever ridden a man
so long you thought you might
both be livestock? a monkey played
the kazoo on a corner & dreamed 
of inheriting his owners house.
he wants to garden. he wants
to lock the front door. in the air
i tried not to think of touch down.
the rollercoaster serpented onward
without a worry, going to eat a hole
in a mountain. there i was dangling.
little ufo. nothing much to report.
soon to be shot out of the sky. 
nothing supernatural lasts 
especially long. the government has
a detector that'll ring
if too many people are experiencing
life-changing awe. fingers pointing
up at me. even the rollercoaster
glanced over his shoulder.
i don't know if i wanted this fame.
i just wanted a balloon to tie to my wrist
& call "father." i saw my car
down there, belly up like a dead frog.
i tried to think of what to do
when i landed. walk on hands & knees
& try to find a place to sleep.
the sun showed no sign
of sleeping. i broke my knees
on the fall & coiled like a snake
in the freshly mowed grass.
sang a song of tired wheels
until the rollercoaster crept back
into his den & all the rest of the people
returned to their catacombs
leaving me to wander 
like a candy wrapper. 
 
  

shopping basket

i'm looking for certainty at the stop & shop.
count the bodies in the produce section:
five, eight, twelve. three of them
are my dad & all of them are 
feeling their fruit. i always look
at the bottom of strawberries
to check for smashed & rotten ones.
little tired hearts. i want to know
what everyone's fridge looks like right now. 
is it really empty
or just dwindling? who has a jar of mayo
& who has five different hot sauces?
super markets are my favorite place to go
on a friday night. i want to be flirted with
in front of the milk jugs. i want to dance
by the rows of k-cups. once, in high school,
the loud speaker at the local supermarket 
played "smells like teen spirit" & 
i never felt so euphoric. i dream
of falling in love with someone 
at a supermarket. the bananas aren't 
long enough today. on days like this
i want to be green. i fill the basket with  
loneliness & get another & another
just to leave them around the store.
i am an abandoner of necessities. 
in the cereal aisle i check to see
what kinds of shapes i could be
cut into. star & donut circle & 
marshmallow. what kind of bowl 
could i fill? i carry an anticipatory spoon
in case i find him here (future lover)
& he's hungry. outside the window
spring is coming fast. it's going
to rain all weekend & make the world
muddy & horny. i self-check out & buy 
too much & too little.
a bottle of dressing. a carton of eggs.
each *bleep* across the scanner.
a friend of mine used to want
a barcode tattoo. i don't think it's edgy
but i do think i already have one.
it's not worth searching for.
i wait too long in the parking lot.
listen to the radio & hope for 
a good song but the good song doesn't come.
more people enter the grocery store.
more people leave, arms full.

turkey leftovers

i was your beautiful carcass once.
my mother fills the turkey's heart
with lemons & the juices pour out
where a head once was.
the head is hiding elsewhere
in a bin of turkey heads.
once, i spread out on your mattress 
& the bed became an oven.
an orange-red heat. 
you rubbed oil into my shoulders
& called me love love dear dear. 
can a turkey fly? can meat love?
can a feather return?
i laid all my bones on the table.
some for soup & some for staring
& some for witchcraft. 
you kissed savory into me.
made a dinner between my ribs.
you whispering,
what would you like to eat tonight?
my reply,
who do you wish i was?
we make use of every morsel.
mother boiling the hollow 
turkey cathedral. the house smelling
like grey-sky. salt dangling 
in the air like pecks
from beaks or on cheeks.
boys are all butchers
of one kind or another. the knife
you kept in your dresser.
the knife i hid in my own throat.
still, it was me who cut his tongue.
it was you who hauled the bird
like a god. i'll be feasting on us
for the whole rest of my life.
shoot another bird. 
mom washing the big iron tray
in the tiny sink
trying to rid
the grit & gristle of a bird.

fire-eating tutorial

pre-sun, we used to fill 
the moon with oil & light her.

i was a rainbow in the oil.
old veins in the trees remember

what colors the first fires were.
now, we give back our dust

to the sidewalk. i broke off
a limb & used it as a oar.

cup your hands & wait
for candy.

the flood was wild & pink.
take your tongue & press it 

to the back of your teeth
like you're about to say "true."

nothing will fill you
quite like this.

sandpaper your lips until
they shine. a trip

to the back of the grocery store
to find the fire.

fire in the sink. fire eating
your friend's chest.

a mirror on the mantel 
for fire gazing. scrying 

with the sun. fire in each
eye socket. nothing to worry about.

the ashes will blow away.
the moon will fill with nectar.

your insides will bloom.
spit out a disaster. brothers

in their cassocks coughing
incense. after the throat we don't know

where citizens happen.
you knew ice cream once & it ached

all the way to your bones.
we were little icicles. little teeth.

you knew you were going
to be a mother even then.

spit & spat. the damaged dragon
selling himself for dimes. 

one moment filled to the brim
& then ghost. 

fitting room

you need another size up.
turn around. you feel cool 
don't you? the mirrors blink 
like big brothers. 
you've never been inside a GAP before
& everyone here is clean.
lots of shoes with white soles.
you aunt is a sliver woman 
with lots of knuckles & papery lips.
she's taking you shopping
so you can get older.
you love the orange pale flowers-print hoodie.
pull the hood
over your head & stuff fists
into pockets. now you're
a real hermit crab girl.
leave a thumb print on a mirror.
measure fat by the handful. 
camo pants. she tells you to turn around.
crosses her arms like trestles.
on the street outside the wide shop windows
everyone carries a large shopping bag
with their heart at the bottom. 
you think of the thrift store
where you usually go with mom.
there was a red shirt you loved
but it didn't quit stretch 
over your stomach. shopping is 
a series of bodily installations.
you are going to fifth grade next year
& you'd hoped to be smaller by then.
there's no use in looking
for too long or the mirror self
will start to get ideas. she brings you
more & more items. she brings you
a yellow dress that makes you feel 
like a widening smudge & a pink top
with a purposeful hole in the side.
you notice her fingernails'
round even tips. little opaque 
windows. she takes a smoke break
& you sit in the dressing room
avoiding all four of yourself.
you look at your soft pinkish lips
& your crooked jagged nails.
bite them down. spit the bits
on the navy blue carpet.
you'd like this to never end. 
 

fork swallowing contest

i challenge myself,
laying my implements
on the counter. outside, the snow
is just starting to blush
& a man shovels a tunnel
from his doorstep
to his lovers. a whisper
lingers outside my window.
fork between teeth. i ask
"am i?" the forks tune the air,
ready to sing. 
all the thumb tacs 
hold my apartment's shoulders back.
no one knows my favorite sound
& it's a secret
i want desperately to admit.
the forks coil & uncoil.
little creatures. my throat
is dense & planetary. i used to believe
in garbage disposals & 
composting my tongue. i wanted
the limb to come back
green & soft. the back yard
spits a spoon at the window
each night as a reminder
to eat again in the morning.
i'm no sick of forks though.
their fingers reaching & their necks
so thinned from nodding.
alarms are a kind of angel.
first fork goes down easy
but second scrapes a long gash
in my throat. i peel open
& in comes the dust.
no matter how hard i try
my house is always 
brimming with dust. i wake up
with a layer on my forehead.
in a future life i'd like
to just be a bookshelf 
or a cutlery drawer. get rid
of all my pink parts.
last fork is easy since
i'm already split open.
just set teeth inside teeth.
no more forks. free of forks.
in bed i feel a sliver of peace
even if the forks will just
come out my mouth at night
as dragonflies. what i would do 
for a radio or a gas lamp.
how do you know 
your done chewing? 
the metal lilts. i am 
just a box. a bird stands
upside down. sings
a knife through the air
where it lodges in the far wall.
i say, "thank you"
so the animal will leave me
to my thought gazing.
i hum & the forks hum too. 

supermarket underwater

we used to hold our breath,
my mom, my brother, & i 
in the blue water. i asked
for webbed feet or gills.
we put foot stamps beneath our tongues
& shut our eyes.
a drenching urge to purchase
everyone's conversations
as they packaged themselves
in plastic. a pair of scissors
just for cutting open glass.
automatic bubble.
the shopping cart hovering slightly
as we all worked to thrust. 
my brother complaining 
of the lack of air & mom explaining
"this will all be over soon."
once a year
someone drowns in the market
& everyone else waits for the body
to be fished out with net.
what separates fish meat
from human meat from
jack fruit meat? 
i buy diving gear because i want
to feel powerful even 
in the sea of my hungers. 
i'm sick of buying toilet paper
& shampoo.
i want to only snap up 
cake & sweets & cherries & melon
floating in the depths. 
live in a house of sugar.
dissolve under my own tongue.
it is not fair
there's so many aisles.
one for each stripe of longing.
with my new suit i can last
almost a whole day
underwater. the dry world
knows nothing of pressure
& push. a plastic bag
billowing like a jellyfish 
or a ghost. i'm filling the cart.
i'm using my webbed feet.
soon, i will break the surface
& the air will gasp as i 
& all the others exit
via the supermarket ramp.
the whole scene will be
mostly hidden under the surface.
just a water-blurry neon red sign
saying, "SHOP HERE."