seasoning the wood

in the field up the street the farmer 
keep piles of split logs. a limb cascade 
stacked toward the sky. in winter 
i buy wood in the dark. i would use 
a flashlight to cut the shadows. the piles 
were always moving like thousand-fingered animals.
the farmer with his leather skin & green cap 
standing in the distance like just another
tree's shoulder. it takes two years to really
season the wood. while it waits, the wood basks
in memories. each piece becoming brothers
beneath the sun's wingbeats. in february 
the seasoned wood ran out but the cold stayed.
i wanted any escape from the fire's hunger.
more & more & more. i would drive past
to see if the farmer was still there. it could be
any time of night & he would be with the wood.
part of the wood. i saw him split. the rings
of a carousel in the mountains split
into arches. fibers from the saw. no matter what you do
you cannot rush the trees. cannot quickly
season the wood. time is not on our side. 
i think it is inside us in rings. a boy 
in the town where i grew up swallowed 
a pocket watch. turned into a tree & legend says
if you put your ear to the tree, it is still ticking. 
i know how long a log has been waiting just
by touching the surface. when they are ready
their flesh is hard. a closed fist. a smooth breaking
just beneath the surface. the farmer's teeth
in the ringing moonlight. 

the last taxi to the museum of modern elegies 

i buy a mourning dove & feed her lemon drops
until she glows. in the television i used to see
fields of lights. we do not make it to where
we thought we'd be going. i opened college letters.
small bad. big good. what did i want? what will
i want when the big statues of girls get flesh
in the afternoon. we are at the city place
with all the windows & i am stuck trying 
to be human with you. both of us sleep in bunk
beds without a way out. you tell me a story
of a chicken with an iphone & i explain that
i am just trying to find a way home. not everyone
has eaten with a fork but everyone has eaten
with their hands. the stop signs cease to work.
the forest keeps more secrets. i buy a subscription
to a lover. she sleeps in the box she came in. 
i try to coax the train out from her slumber but
it is no use. we will have to take a cab. i haven't
taken a taxi since i was in high school & the city
had too many hands. i could have stayed
forever. lived off of strange horns. the driver
has a picture of his child on the dashboard.
she is feathered. another mourning dove. i offer him
a lemon drop & he puts up his hand. explains
that he still needs more time. i understand that.
it is all our nature to put off whatever big inevitable
is coming. god or a package or a mouth. 
the driver moves wild. we climb a sky scraper. 
we listen to barreling music. at one point
he closes his eyes & the street gets smooth 
& right. the trick is we never get there. a big
long avenue with flags from all the broken places 
which is to say every nation to ever exist. 
the street scrolls. takes us back to the beginning. 
the museum just out of reach. full of something
we want to weep about but can't.
is it the hormones or all the time? the boy 
at a counter drinking coffee. the taxi, small now.
the size of an ice cube, shrinking. 

cloud bone

sometimes i go take a nap
in dead people's data. an old word 
document with a blinking cursor
& three lines of poetry. when a friend turned
into a blue heron a few years ago
i found out in the bathroom at work.
my impulse was to call him. all the feathers.
he had tried to talk to me a few weeks before. 
it had been his decision. at first i thought
of his body & then all the trails of 
keys pressed in the big master cloud. uploaded femur
& blood in a spam folder. his bones
everywhere, unburied. that night i got
a shovel & i dug into the walls looking
for the internet. not just the cable but 
a portal into the big elegy. i found a few pictures
of us & an unanswered facebook message.
i tore away wallpaper until i was sitting
on his side of the glow. unsent half-letters.
a bowl of searches like a litany. ever since i have
been a frequent traveler in the digital land
of the dead. whenever someone i know dies
i spend hours on their social media profiles.
sometimes i'll send them an email. in the night
i go deeper. their ribs like space bars pressing
the dark's organ pedal. my favorite places to arrive
are destinations on the wayback machine. 
time capsule of fingers. herons in code & herons
in the sky. i will sometimes discover someone gone
who i didn't mean to. i had wanted them
to be alive in my head forever. when that happens
i have to dig myself loose quickly
run out of the house & into the hyacinth field.
all the computers there. my friends' bones 
duplicated & yet still somehow absent 
in the only way i need. i visit my friend's profile still.
no one has taken it down & for that i am 
so grateful. i don't want an memorial. i want
his ghost. every once in awhile another friend will write
on his facebook wall something like, "i saw
a blue heron today & i knew it was you." 

battery life

like any poet, i am always
fighting the moon. i want to have her
over for dinner. i want to use
my phone flashlight to find her face.
in a dream, the house catches fire &
i turn into a diamond in the heat. a diamond in
the rough. a diamond in my phone
which is sending signal to the aliens
or my fbi agent again. i believe
in all conspiracies & non of them.
maybe my agent loves me & dreams of
both of us getting free. he does not have
a chance i have a partner who picks wild onions. 
mostly, i just believe that billionaires
have all devoured children. i don't actually know
if it matters to me whether that is 
a metaphor or not. does it matter if you
eat with your teeth or a machine? doesn't
the blood go the same place? i'm sorry that
was a little too much. the world is heavy.
no one wants to be heavy. as a child i was
obsessed with one very specific space fact.
after our star goes red giant & unburdens 
us all, it will collapse in on itself into 
a tight little mass so dense that none of us
could even lift a teaspoon of it. 
i imagined eating that teaspoon. i take comfort
in the notion that this burning will let us all
be furious as we need. my phone's crappy battery life
will no longer plague me when we are all 
galloping through space. still, i plug 
my personal ghost in. i run my finger
across the screen. all the diamonds. 
the moon, standing me up again, pulling
clouds over her face. a billionaire 
on my father's television talking about
how he plans to maybe stop killing everyone
but just a little bit. i love to eat alone. 
it reminds me of early covid when 
my world fit in a shovel. do not let anyone
tell you to go all red giant. you can only
do it once. i still want to see you glowing.

bare hand 

she grips either side of the fruit. the apple
is round like a steering wheel & thick as 
a bruise. she posts a video every day on her page.
each video, the same going back months.
an apple broken into two. the flesh dripping 
on a counter. on the sidewalk. into the grass.
the comments are full of lesbians. i am not
one of them but i share their hunger to be 
dissected by something beautiful. i want to ask
the tiktok woman how long did it take you to reach
the core of it all? when was the first time 
you grabbed an apple & pressed with resolve? 
i used to eat apples whole. arsenic & all. 
i am not sure what that says about me. about us. 
my mouth, always a shovel. the core, something
to be devoured in the rush. when i worked
at the orchard, all pickers were faster than me.
their hands moving like dreams. they were 
all men. they handled the fruit like ruin because
it was. we had to work fast. rush the fruit. our hands.
our mouths. the woman never films herself 
eating the apple which leaves me to wonder 
how & when she does. i like to imagine that
she eats one half & feeds the other to a lover. 
the comments ask to be the one torn apart. 
for the woman to grab either side of a body 
& press. finally, she posts a technique video.
i consider not watching it to keep up my 
little fantasy. finally i do. she moves more slowly 
than ever. the heel of her hand. the motion seems 
almost gentle. the fracturing, yearned for. 
the comments, plead. more. more more. 

grandfather barbershop 

my father gets his hair cut
from the old man at the flea market
whose hand shakes while he holds
the clippers. he has a beard that reaches
his chest. my father says he prefers
the conversation. doesn't mind
that his hair comes out uneven
& sometimes lopsided. he cleans up
the trim himself in the bathroom mirror,
leaving a scattering of thorny hair
in the sink. i do not ask
what they talk about but i imagine
maybe the old man is gentle in a way
my father needs. i didn't know 
my grandfather long. he lived in
a house without windows & an empty
chicken coop in the yard. he fed me
jelly beans. from what i gather, he was
a man skilled at disappearance. at fading
into ceiling & doors. my father never talks
about him unless it is to tell a story
in which he tried to climb into 
a cistern to escape the world or another
when the tornado ate the sister town
& he thought death was coming for him. 
i do not know if the barber man is 
a grandfather man but he must be something
to my father. i have passed the shop
many times. one little white window 
looking out at the fruit stands & antique 
talkers. the candy stripped poll spinning
like a melting ladder. i want to get my hair cut there
at least once but i wonder if it would be like
taking something from my father. this,
his father now. the scissors sitting in
a little dish of blue disinfectant.
my father likes his hair long just like my 
grandfather did. once black waves 
now peppered white. he has never said this 
aloud but i watch how he handles his hair
with tenderness. resists whenever
my mom tells him to cut it but always
gives in. walks up the tree to the market.

rubber tree

we planted a rubber tree in my room
when i was in fifth grade. it grew
purple red & spoke only in questions.
"who are we?" "where does the light go?"
i loved to ask questions back.
"where is the moon tonight?" "am i
old enough to miss my childhood?"
the rubber tree was a poet. i would sometimes
read to her. she would bask in the words.
i only had a few poetry books back then.
she liked emily dickinson the best. 
the next part terrible i am sorry
not to you but to the rubber tree. one day
i played with her leaves. they were thick.
nothing like the palms of the spearmint bush
by the side of the house or 
even the african violet by the sink. 
i tore the leaf following some forest brain impulse.
the rubber tree asked, "why did you do that?"
her blood was like milk. white & sticky.
an attempt to heal. i responded,
"what does it feel like?" she replied,
"have you ever lost a limb?" i had not & so
i did not have a question to give back to her.
i wish i could tell you that i never
did that again. the curiosity. no maybe it 
was hunger. maybe greed. i was not young.
not in the forest way. i came back. i wanted to witness
the blood. how thick it came. her wounds 
made her saint like. i never apologized. that would
have been more cruel. instead, i worked myself up
to asking her, "how many leaves are left in you?"
she was tired. sitting with a handful of
ragged soil. she asked, "how many have 
you taken?" i did not remember. each one though
pressed itself against my throat. sometimes
still i will get a little cut on my thumb
or my knee. the first moment the blood 
will come like the rubber tree. warm & white.
then, my animal nature returns red 
as mars at dusk. 

snow country machine

now you can buy the winter
& ship it to your house.
i see my neighbor with a snow country
machine & he is skiing in july.
he is taking a picture of his children
all dressed for the blizzard. all the birds
are asking each other, "where should
we go?" i explain to them that this is
just a new human horror & they sigh
& continue their elegizing in the dark.
the neighbor invites other neighbors 
& then everyone is winter. did snow
feel different on your face when you
were a kid or am i just nostalia-ing where
i don't need to? it felt softer or maybe
more real. like the raspberries that 
are born in one night. dark & almost red.
i remember one dusk my sibling & i laid
in the front yard while the world
was swallowed by snow. the sky,
a brown-black that only comes 
when the blizzard is deep & un-ending.
i thought of both of us becoming snow.
plummeting gently from a breath 
of a cloud man. i find myself jealous of
my neighbor's snow country machine
even though i do not even really want it.
i want to know if when he closes his eyes
that sometimes the snow feels red 
on his flesh like it used to for me.
if when he opens his mouth to catch
the cool crystals, they taste bright.
a see an ad for the snow country machine that says 
one day everyone will have their own device 
to give them everything they desire.
i doubt that because desire is always moving. 
i buy the machine. i do not even remember
doing it. the box is smooth. my neighbor,
still skiing sees the delivery ghost.
he points to the box & gives me a thumbs up. 

cereal aisle 

anything you can dream
can become a box of cereal. anything
you nightmare too. i have found myself
with a spoonful of roaches in the old apartment
where chairs flew out the windows. five more boxes & then
we will be the domino house. shoulder 
to shoulder with a coming catastrophe.
i knock a hole in the aluminum bag & all the pops
come singing. the kellogg man sits
on a pile of corn above my little perfect
sanitarium. in college i used to go to the grocery store
to feel human. i harvested cereal. carts full. 
more than i could ever eat. i think i wanted
to live like a prize inside. i stacked the boxes beneath
my bed. made my own cereal aisle. warplanes
flew overhead. a spoon sleeping in the grain.
i learned the names like doorbells. here is where
the raisins go clutching their sun. if i could
i would have a whole house of cereal. retro cereal
still in the boxes, the morsels turning to dust.
an attempt at eternity in their bonemeal. 
the kellogg man prescribes me a bowl
of everything. sends the crows to 
observe my progress. i eat in front of a television
that does not remember my name. the shopping carts
know where i live. they arrive in the yard.
graze on cardboard & the moon juice.
i try my best to not fill my lack with sugar
& worry but it is all i have ever known. 
if you hold a cheerio up to your eye you can
use it like a hagstone. it'll show you the future. 
when i look i always see bathtubs of milk. 
the shopping carts come inside & browse my aisles.
i lock the door so they can't leave. they whimper
& i feed them handfuls of froot loops. 

poem in which i am an activist 

i don't consider myself an activist.
i do like the idea of glory & revolution
but i was built for aftermaths. my lungs
are spore sewers. i come from a long line
of antique talkers. in my childhood home
a telephone from the early 1900s hung on 
the wall. i would sometimes listen to
the earpiece & hear the ghosts arguing
about the same hungers we have. in the backyard, my father
plants tomatoes & lets them grow wild
& untended. each fruit, a red giant.
when they all yield, we will be picking for days. 
i am so tired of wrestling with
the finger-eating machine. instead, i want
to build gills like mushroom folds. 
i see government buildings & i dream
of making them greenhouses. all laws are outlived
by the soil. if i was an activist, i wouldn't
last very long. i was burn bright. maybe wrap
a senator's house in a takeout bag & carry it
to the burning town in the mountains. 
i would not be bold enough to throw a shoe
at a governor but if i did, i would choose
my old stripper heels. maybe, if there were
enough of us, we would turn into horses
& trample all of their genocide stations. i do not want
to spend any more of our precious sun
trying to convince that which was designed 
to kill me, to keep me. so often i feel like
a throat lozenge in the mouth of another 
evil man digging holes for fence posts.
i buy a pocketknife & discover it is useful
as a garden spade. in the front yard, the ferns
are unfurling their fists. i wonder what it is
that they reach for. i should probably open
my hands too. catch something. not a star,
maybe just a petal from the peach tree who might,
if the world is real enough this year, bear fruit.