vows

i am done with confessing.
turn me into a really smooth rock.
i want to be plucked from
the side of a parking lot. i want to keep
all my little frayed edges inside.
to have my keeper marvel at how 
soft i can be despite my species. 
years ago when i was still a romantic
i used to write vows for you. i vow
to always hold the sun like a basketball.
i vow to carry your coffee to the moon
if you need it. i vow to be the one
who pushed the car when there is
no more dinosaurs to burn. how to i explain
that it is not that i love you less but that
i am less good at vows these days.
the only one i crave is a silence that might
let us meld into the walls of the house.
i think i would rest as the stink bug light.
you, as the carpeted staircase. i want 
to keep us safe by which i mean i need
a house inside the house. some people
take vows of silence for a whole year.
i wonder if that could free me?
would the words in my head change shapes?
turn into stones too? then, how would i
start talking again? i think maybe 
after all that tongueless
i could get back to what i was. i could vow 
to use the can opener on the day. to shake
your shoes out on the porch
& keep you safe from spiders. to lay 
in your pocket, a stone eager for your thumb. 
i find confessionals
in every room i enter. i burn them
just to watch them grow back. door
& partition. the priest
in me & the priest in you. a house of stones.
i can start by making a promise. i will sink 
in any body of water i am dropped.

cookie dough 

my favorite thing
about being a girl was cookie dough. 
a brief worship of impatience.
swallowing the stars before they come
full into focus. chocolate chips
in the dazzled night. 
once, in the middle of the summer 
i was having a sleepover & we were
all soft & strange. girls in a backyard
where the frogs were singing. we passed 
a plastic bowl of dough. we had made 
with no intention to bake. 
pockets of sugar from poor mixing.
the egg, yolk-sweet & thick. 
i held spoonfuls of dough in my mouth 
& let it dissolve. my teeth like 
church bells. the lights from my friend's house
glowed & cast our shadows on the earth.
crickets like shrunken car alarms.
sometimes back then summer felt like
it could keep us forever. like maybe
we could exist on nothing but befores. 
before we turn sixteen. before we 
drive a rocket ship. before
the dough is shaped into flying saucers.
before all of that it is just our mouths.
mismatched metal spoons. 
the big wooden one reserved for
the sleepover host. the plum dark. we stayed up 
until even the moon's eyes were heavy. fell asleep
with the windows open. 
sugar still on our tongues. 

sunlight diary 

i used to say, "i'm not that radical"
but that was just me talking to 
the cop in my tower. i thought 
shrinking my desires could
keep me safe. it has in some ways
but i am actually 
interested in an upheaval. 
i want to worship the sun for real. i want
to share spoons with ghosts. i want 
to leave my doors open so that 
my neighbors can come & lay on the couch
& watch bad tv. i want buildings
full of beds to sleep & cafes where we eat
until we are caterpillars. i go out in the morning
without my skin. i rush back inside
to put it on. the moment of light
free of all the flesh felt like
swallowing an antidote. what would
it take for all of us to write on the sun
like a marble notebook? everyone i know
puts their dreams into little envelopes.
mails them to a fire on the other side
of the world. i want to open the earth.
converse freely with the bugs. i want
to bathe the moon for the first time
in a millennia. i do not need 
a new leader. a mayor. a president.
i need a root gallery where we can
get tangled like tree stones. curl 
our fists. throw all we have. fleshless 
& bare, we might know each other. 
our bruises in the sky as continents. 
we would say, "do you remember when
we used to survive on nothing
in the shadow of jewel swallowers?"
maybe we would choose to forget
& say, "no, how could anyone have
lived like that?" 

fly life cycles

i try to reason with the bugs.
i have become much more empathetic
to their cause the older i get. 
the flies who are born in the sink
have more in common with me
than billionaires. i tell them,
"i too arrived the shadow of 
a shadow of a shadow." i am an egg
in a country of stairs. the older the fly,
the easier to crush. i tell them,
"here is the door" & "here is the window"
& "here is how to leave & never
return." they do not listen. instead,
they revel in my syrups. my sweet library.
swell in the wild of my compost bin.
maggots & their friends. i long
to writhe like them. a muck disciple.
blessed are the decomposers or whatever
the beatitudes say. i find the spiders
to be the most sensible. they say,
"in the web, all my labor is my own."
some of them are as thin as beading needles.
i try to trust them. try to hope
their work will be enough to cull the house.
still, from time to time, i destroy their work. 
in the aftermath i feel strange. like a traitor. 
i look up & remember we are in the house of a 
house of a house. i too have
weaved all night just to have my worth 
swallowed by something large & 
unnamable. i wish i could put back
what i broke. the spider though is 
vacuum buried. the web, vanished.
the windowsill, clean. 

carriage rides

i am afraid of how i will reach you
when the roads turn to bone 
& the trees are on fire. i buy a horse
from a man in the sky. the horse
is glorious. we ride her all the way
to a soft peach skin place. we waste 
our days talking about the future
when there is no future to talk about.
instead, we should be focused on
how to squeeze the dark. get the last
few drops of syrup. pour it across
our skin. you build us a carriage from
an old car & a hole in the wall. 
i play with the bridle & you get too serious
& tell me you never want me to carry you.
that, if i have to, you want me 
to burry all the papers & pretend
we are new to the earth. we ride in 
the carriage to the last restaurant 
on earth. the windows are full of 
menus, always changing in the depleating
meat situation. we are not there for burgers.
that would be insulting to the horse.
instead, we are there for fried potatoes
& coleslaw. we need a little mouthful
of the dazzling chrome diner. 
the world closes in. the carriage, such 
a beautiful work of endurance, swallowed
by the creeping sun. everyone has 
more fingers than they know what
to do with. the horse stays. thank god 
for the horse. we use her to get out
of there before they make us bus boys.
no again. i can't do that again. 
i want to believe there is a gas station
or a defunct church we could use
to hold each other. in the dark you ask,
"do you remember the big car?" 
the truth is that i do not. i remember
things used to be easier but i am not sure
if that is because the world is so much thicker
or if it is that early love soothes 
the fires even if they are in your windows.
i put on the bridle even though 
you asked me not to. i trot around the room.
i take us to the house, now just a cluster
of roots. it is at least somewhere to sleep. 

husband

we met our husband in the dark.
he had arms full of groceries 
that turned out to be only eggs.
cartons & cartons of eggs. we both 
had wanted a husband for so long
we had forgotten what we wanted
him for. to carry things? to fix the roof?
to have something to mourn when he left?
he would not leave though. instead,
our husband sat on the sofa & watched
whatever sports he could find. he would
laugh too loud & then shout sometimes
at a rerun game. we were on edge. 
then, one morning, we noticed what
he was doing with the eggs. he was 
swallowing them whole. we had wondered how
he managed to stay so meaty without
consuming any of the meals we made for him.
this was the terrifying answer. we decided 
to not let him know we'd seen him. avoided him
in the house as much as we could. 
i remember years ago when we met
& we talked about labels. would we be husbands?
partners? beloveds? definitely not wives. 
the term would never hold me. it was like
a cullender & i was the water. you have always been
more of a husband than me. i begin to worry
that you eat eggs like that too. that you
swallow whatever you need whole. when you
are asleep & the husband is asleep i get up.
i inspect your face for signs that 
you have been learning how to be a husband
from our invited intruder. i find none. 
feel guilty for not trusting you. 
in the morning dark i ask you, "will
you help me catch him?" you breathe, "yes."
a relief. he was easier than we thought he'd be
to restrain. we walked him out into the middle
of the field far enough so that we were shore
he would struggle to find his way back. 
we like to think he is some else's husband now
though on years when the corn grows tall
i feel like i see him, thinner now. mouth like
a pried open soup can. hungry for 
something none of us can name. 

moth-filled

i've tried really hard to keep them
in the pillowcase. before we go to bed,
i go around the house, capturing 
as many moths as i can. my hands end up dusty
from their wing powder. they tell me,
"please, i want a light big enough
to keep us all." i lie to them.
i explain that in our sleep, every creature
can find a sun. i deposit them in the pillowcase.
i don't know when this started. you were
weeping about the plethora of moths
who inhabit the house. i needed a solution.
i could not bring myself to kill them. i tried
throwing them back outside. i tried 
talking to the spiders who explained,
"they are too large for our mouths." i even tried
walking them to the mailbox & telling them
they could have that little cavern all to themselves.
the bedroom has long been their favorite host.
with one light & our undulating griefs
if becomes a place suited to afterlives.
i often see the moths in my dreams. the same ones
who live in the pillowcase. this is my evidence
for the theory that if we all pressed ourselves
tight enough together we could share the same
sleep world as we do the awaking one. 
i feel them glass beads & secrets. this is more
than enough for the moths. somehow 
the pillowcase never runs out of room. 
it is deeper than i could have even imagined.
sometimes the moths will ask, "when are you
going to come too?" i put it off. i tell them,
"i am supposed to be a husband." they say,
"we are all husbands in the dark." i flick on 
the light switch at the back of my throat
so my eyes can shine in their infinity space. 
for a moment i am the moth mother. a salvation,
then the lights off. the darkness. so so many wings. 

old woman in a shoe

i learned nursery rhymes late. 
drug around my father on a leash. 
the sky has toe nails. the sky has teeth.
on the mountain everyone was my mother.
the neighbor without teeth & the neighbor
with the horrible dog & the neighbor with
stained glass eyes. beyond the trees lived
a woman inside a shoe. she did not have children
like in the story. instead, she had bells.
i would ask her, "am i ever going to be
a real baby?" she fed me whatever i asked for.
bagels & butter. bruised peaches sugary 
from their squashing. she always said, "it is too late."
i knew that. i have several gray hairs. i have
hair on my back. still i remember begging
my adults to swaddle me & pretend i am
a baby their found in the middle of
the jungle. the old shoe woman does this for me
only once. it is a day when i am so sick
the sounds of rain turn me to dust. she says,
"i know you need this." i don't remember how
i got home but i assume she carried me.
no one else in town ever believed me about her.
i still sometimes leave a shoe outside
in the hopes she will inhabit it & start
tending me again. the truth is though she is elsewhere
making a baby of someone who needs it
more than me. often i wonder if i am becoming
an old woman who lives in a shoe. i take pride
in holding who i can. then, pulling the laces tight
& slipping into a home that is dark & musty. 
soft scent of leather. children quiet in the dark.
their eyes, like coins in a well. 

aubade with the chickens

i ask the chickens what love means 
to them. they respond with their 
round little curious eyes. i remember
when they fit in my hand. we kept the chicks
in the little dog crate upstairs while
they grew. the rooster, now mighty 
& spurred, was always the first to try &
escape. he'd run around the room
tearing papers. i think he was just looking
for the sun. it was april by the time
we got everyone outside. the fresh coup
like a palace. they told each other 
stories from the roost at night like, "have you seen
the stars eat each other?" & 
"do you believe in winter?" we have
not lost one yet. there have been hawks 
& cats & snakes still all of them remain.
i have come to learn the meanings
of some of their sounds. "come on" &
"there is something delicious" & "please stay"
& "be careful." i make the vocalization
back to the birds. they look at me like
"you do not know what you are saying."
this is true. i come asking about love
because i feel a great & growing lack 
around me. surely the chickens must know
something  i do not. about the soil.
the worms. the flavor of dusk. 
they do not respond. instead, they feast
on herb-smelling crumbles. sip fresh water.
shove each other like brothers. lay their eggs
in the pine chips. a cluster of planets.
yolks, their gift-wrapped light. 

first communions

i help my grandmother out
of the oven for the fourth time 
this week. she is covered in grease.
she says she was making a cake
for my first communion.
i had my sacraments years ago.
i put on a white dress & everyone
celebrated me becoming a mouth.
i hated the taste of the old host.
at my church they baked fresh unleavened bread
instead of the wafers most people know. 
it was grainy & dense. i tried
to imagine it turning into flesh. 
metallic taste of a tired god's blood. 
my grandmother does not remember much.
just that we are supposed to be celebrating.
she sits at the kitchen table. she claps 
at nothing. starts making the cake again.
first cherry then dirt then butterflies. 
she tells too much truth. she says,
"i do not believe in any of this."
i feed the cakes to the moon. his
great big tongue like a wave. i tell him,
"my grandmother won't move on."
the moon says, "move on where?"
i do not believe in an afterlife. i believe
in a body life & a lingering life &
those can flow between each other.
my grandmother never head a body life.
not really. now she wants one badly. 
i tell her i cannot give her what i also
barely have. she chases me with a spoonful
until i take it. taste of roots & thorns. 
she asks, "how does it feel?"
i tell her, "like communion."