i wanted to sleep until the sky fell out of my mouth

i regret to tell you
i'm wintering in someone else's heart.
we are going down to the river
where the coal barges 
used to wish themselves
towards fire. an old flower's head 
rusts in the street & reminds me 
of those photographs we took
underwater. you as the fisherman
& me as the hook. mostly,
i am the implement. knife
to carve wood. tree trunks
drop to the sidewalk like rain
& we don't know how many more statues
we could possibly need.
i remove a splinter from 
the ball of my foot. little ladder
little root. i close my eyes
for all needles. like a planet catcher,
i have no time for miniatures.
give me all your largest ornaments.
this year, apples grow to the size
of babies heads. a pumpkin
snores & swells as big as any father.
you sleep soundlessly. grave dug
in your mouth while i ponder
the depths of a lemon seed.
i wrap myself in grape leaves.
you told me children are better
than adults at the apocalypse.
adults only care about not dying.
that we're past the point 
of atonement. i disagree i just want
to be held like blown glass. 
my dating profile
asked "what are your little pleasures?"
i listed: thumbs, spoons,
& the always impending new year. 
nothing is small anymore. if i could sleep
until my loneliness is over then
wake up in a bed of men
doing each other's makeup, i would 
be healed. lush with company. they promise
a sleepover just happened 
& i dozed through it.
they love me still. paint my face
lavender. bruise-blue lips.
the river is never friendless 
or loverless. down there 
it's memories could swallow us whole.
bodies in the water. the hope
of a shark. dipped oar. escape. 

life raft

fill me up like jupiter.
i want to expand to the size 
of a salvation. the front door opens 
& in comes my brand new jesus
in an amazon box. he's got
a posable miracle. i'm eating
my ice cream now don't bother me.
we have to clutch each joy
like a migrating bird.
when the sea levels rise 
this will be a good place to rest.
all the beach houses bobbing 
in the waves like wine glasses.
dinner was not notable or new.
my fork tuned the sky. 
i don't have an ear for pitch 
or for music. i'm envious
of people who can sing whatever
is in their head. put a harp
on the moon already. harvest 
guitar strings before dinner.
a twirled spoon. a folded napkin.
my brother is on a paper airplane 
right now please pray for him.
i think pity gets me farther 
than love. how do i fix water?
who is going to sit by the telephone
& wait for the next bad news?
i will be occupied with 
hoarding life rafts. on the titanic
they didn't have enough. i won't be
one of those sea-dissolved statues.
i won't sing my clarinet 
for the end times. 
apocalypse sound track is all 
they're playing on the radio anymore.
what i wouldn't give 
for some violin. not a quartet 
or a bouquet but just a single player.
all my life rafts are made of glass.
i fill them with breathy poems.
read the mary oliver books you gave me
directly into the future. 
planets are all stuffed of 
wrong mouths. canoe lips. 
paddle away & pretend
you don't recognize me.
all my old gloves & utensils float past.
i pluck a knife from the water.

familial consciousness

we all wanted to be a son.
took our faces down to the grotto
where pale eyeless fish tell fortunes.
anything can be a father
if it is far enough away. 
something to be pointed to.
that over there is where 
all my sadness came from. to be 
masculine is to be constantly addressing 
a lack of daffodils.
but, just to be clear
sew me with any flower you can find--
i'm sick of the cement & the sorry sorry
sorry. this poem is already too serious. 
i'm trying to say i need to be beautiful 
as soon as i can muster it.
i have been trying to focus on poems
that tell the truth. 
everyone was ten years old
& cursed with a zoo in the heart. 
little beautiful cages.
also ten, while making jello i dyed 
my fingers red to the knuckle.
we brought forth wavering little planets. 
i cry less easily than ever before. 
tried to wash the red out but it persisted.
looked like i stuck my fingers
into a family machine. now it takes a lot
to make me weep so instead 
i watch videos of monsoons. i wash 
my hands with cool water instead
of hot. pretend everything
is a downpour. search the ceiling
for another leak & find none--
smooth & egg shell white. i sleep 
inside an embryo inside a red smudge. 
soon i will be someone's father--
biological or archeological & they will
gesture to me as if i were
a mountain. ask the elevation
& i can't tell you. i am a short
but still smack my head 
on the ceiling. my age doubles
each time i check my face.
fish are useless in these endeavors. 
only the trees read anymore.
but that is to be expected.
a body is also what it will
one day become. so tell me,
will you be my brother? here
is the photo album. here is what
i want you to look like.

poem 

i am the god of necklaces 
& rope. i choked on a knot of sea weed.
sunk to the bottom of a mason jar.
preserved by the hopes of twelve-year-old boys.
watched the ocean shrink to the size
of a quarter. all our profiles
are severed things. i have only
half a face which i use
to befriend my own divisions.
shake hands with snakes. catch birds with a net.
list for me the uses of a mirror.
1) catastrophe 2) re-arranging
i need a new eyelid. re-learn how to blink.
i'll wrap your heart in damp leaves.
the gathering has already begun
& we are dreadfully late. i dream 
of loving you without intention or a body.
i want to be something other than ghost.
you pointed at a great fallen tree
& told me the torn up roots
make fairy homes. that is where
i slip your heart. safe keeping.
all treasures should be hidden.
a mound of multiplying pennies in my closet.
100 is a useless number.
necklaces sprout from the arms
of my stagnant ceiling fans. 
a gloomy dogwood up from between the floor boards. 
some poems don't have titles 
because a name would make them too sturdy.
i don't want to give you any hints
to where i'm hiding that mushy thing.
when i say "heart" i mean 
"everything i'll someday miss about you."
sometimes i wonder what happens 
to us when we finally stop saying
"heart." the necklaces let go
of their clasps. the clothes petal off.
hair falls to the floor in clumps.
it's too late but i'm calling this poem
"i'm keeping your heart where 
you can't find it." all the pots & pan
dance in celebration. they had the seance
without us & now we know nothing
of our futures. oh well. 
 

self administered lobotomy

what is the point of keeping
all the worms in my skull alive?
sacrifice some for the good of the group.
i could go fishing 
in the creek the game warden stock with trout
or i could attract a nice song bird
to replace my radio. i have never been more sane.
in the morning, i spend an hour 
counting my eyelashes. at night
i count again to make sure none were stolen.
all day my stove makes unkeepable promises 
like that he'll take me to disney land or
that he'll make an honest woman of me.
there is nothing honest in my body.
the skull is thicker than i thought.
i always imagined my carapace as lobster tail.
one crack away from flesh.
the butter is inherent to the situation.
there is no dissolving without
melted slip. golden gloss.
i'm trying to fix myself. i'm trying
to be discrete. just like
piercing your own ear. i have
paper towels. i have a blue tarp laid out
in case of disaster. when was the first time
you saw something no one else did?
i saw a dragon perched on the couch 
& he was eating my crayons. an alien landed
on my top bunk. my life so far has been
a series of visitations. i want
a silver moon for my pocket.
i to unburden my lovers of 
all my buzzing. it is hard to sleep near me.
i bring tornados & frying pans.
the grease is enough to kill anyone.
my father used to pat my head & say
"you will be okay sweetie" & he lied
because i wasn't. all my hair fell out
& grew back grey. my teeth danced 
like egg-shakers. an x-ray.
i am a doctor pointing to 
what is wrong. nodding to myself i take aim
& wake up in the bathtub again. 
count my eyelashes. 

my heart inside a hot pocket

the serving size: two fists & 
only the desires you are aware of.
a futon is a futon no matter whose 
beautiful house it is. your boyfriend 
is a potter & he wanted to pinch you
into the shape of a vessel. a list 
of baby names. i'm told 
i should own plants. a palm's worth
of potting soil. the refridgerator
holds all my hope in a green wavering 
pickle jar. today i will go to the grocery store
& feel briefly whole as i buy
3 peppers for five dollars which 
isn't very cheap afterall. the peppers
were grown in a hot house.
maybe all growth is artificial.
i am the size of a lima bean. 
i'll risk it all for 
another summer. i want to soak
in a sink. wash me with the rest
of a blueberries. give your sugar handfuls.
the grass is emo & cutting itself.
my suicidal ideation has moved so far
from intent that it might be called 
dreaming. the microwave fills 
with dew. my paperplates
multiply like rabbits. children 
children children. all i want to go is 
sleep. my brother turned 22 today
& i bet he's not thinking
about hot sauce or garlic. 
the only condiment i have here
is mustard. yellow & sharp.
i've never used it. the packaging 
was ruptured in travel. if we are patient
someone will love us exactly how we want
to be loved but only for one night.
mine was a long time ago. i'm passing
the time. is it 5:30 yet? 
can i take off my shoes? am i alone
with my aches & my shoulders?
a box of hot pockets sleeps 
in the back of the fridge. 
i live my life 2 minutes & 30 seconds
at a time. wait for the bell.
open the door. i'm not trying 
to prove myself anymore. tomorrow
will be a new day. 

i built a pile of leaves to live inside

there's a foliage for this melancholy
or a least a color scheme. 
you said the trees on your street
are turning red. i stole their leaves
for a front door. what will you do
with your nesting nightmares?
i'm going to tiny-house myself
into the next decade. soon i'll be
eighteen days old & the sun's roots
will have done their work. i'll be
stuck on earth with the rest of you.
i feed on nothing but dampness. leaves stuck
to my skin. collage-girl. do you see
a man's face in my chest?
is your stained glass ripe? 
the rake in the yard snapped in half
under all the gendered pressure.
he wanted to wear his mother's heels
but now he harvests dead leaves
from the back step. a dress
is always a possibility. what do you know
about fire escape routes. i'm hoping mine
will save us from the seasons change.
we need a thicker moon if we're going
to make it without any government assistance.
my grandfather built steam engines
& a leaf stuck to his heart
before he fell off top a ladder.
very few people are lucky & we should
pin them down & search them for green.
i am prone to falling. i once snapped 
a bridge in half. you should
go on without me. my house will soon
blow away. just the furniture
standing in the middle
of Pennsylvanian forest. 
i'll be nowhere to be found. 

sleep eating 

what wouldn't you do for a mouthful 
of regrets? in my sleep i fork-knifed
a planet. i slipped milk
on the kitchen floor & left footprints
all the way back to my bed.
the lips are the worst of all organs.
we forget the hinge but without it
nothing opens. all my bones 
have diaries. all my teeth dangle
on strings. little hangmen. 
what have i done to deserve memory?
i used to keep a food journal
like some girls keep a list 
of boy they have crushes on.
i am in love with what keeps me alive.
i drank orange soda from a bowl.
got on all fours. bit chunks out 
of the drywall. sleep destruction.
scampering. can one ever be free 
of a construct? i punish hunger.
oh god of problematic disorders
let me learn to love the fat on my body.
i have no dreams to remember 
just a wanting that cuts through
from sleep to wakefulness. 
sleep driving to the store to buy
the last birthday cake ever.
no more birthdays will ever happen
& here i am. no party. to devour.
a bare handful. blue dye. 
i consumed like winter eats daylight.
steady & then only one more bite.
even washed off the evidence
in the shower. drain brimming 
with crumbs & melting frosting.
crawled back under covers
no morning recollections. no, not true.
i am pretending to not remember.
it is almost november & soon
the year will want nothing
to do with me. i set my lips
on the end table. a sliver of gold light
enters through the corner window. 

hand sewing

when i was twelve i wanted to make my own clothes.
mine always fit sideways & crumpled. 
i rectangled & hexogoned. 
my body grew in strange directions & destroyed
any noticeable shapes in me. 
needles moved through clothe 
like fingernails in cream.
we bought fabric in great sheets. every bolt is a flag 
no matter how small it shutters. 
a set of needles from the dollar store.
thin & glinting. dwindled teeth. my own teeth 
falling out of my skull & onto my speckled carpet. 
sitting at my desk i sewed aimless lines 
into clothe. barely patterns. trying to make
even stiches. pretended i was a woman
in a vague time before department stores 
& plastic clothing hangers. when i was twelve
i wanted to sew my own body. 
a skin cut from these machine woven sheets. pulled 
over my skeleton to make a girling person.
pricked my fingers. little buds of blood.
all my stiches. little crop rows.
outside, november was coming 
& all the corn fields folded inward.
in pennsylvania, winter slowly strips everything.
a hazy dress outline on the floor. dead girl.
i didn't have mirrors in my bedroom
but i had a window & i held the dress outline
to my body there. it could fit. so many stiches.
thin fabric. a house slicing wind
spreading goosebumps across my arms.
the distance between a goal
& our own fingers waning strength.
the dress, a loose sack to carry me 
to the other side of the sunset.
i put my needles to sleep in their case.

prediction 

you kept saying "this winter will be harsh"
& i would argue as if our feelings about
the impending shift were rooted in
some other specific looming knowing. 
it was november & i already missed you
the way you can miss a window in a room 
across a house or the way you can miss
an un-seeable planet. mars thumb-taced in the sky.
do we already know what will come 
to hurt us in the future? is it written
in us like the circles at the heart of a tree. 
those three days of thick permanent snow. sharp knifed wind. 
the city was a diorama we peered into
through a tall pillar of glass.
how quickly a season can invade. the year before
we watched ice skaters make dinner plates
of bryant park. this year was different. 
the apartment fell from the top shelf. 
my old jacket petaled apart. 
found a new one at a thrift shop
in flatbush. the pockets were frayed open
& i lost all my pennies to the sidewalks.
the streets turned into ribbons 
& blew wide open. not enough time.
a holiday is a kind of ledge. we saw 
bird foot prints in the parking lot.
my car, covered in ice. the street three blocks up
where the houses almost resembled homes.
long island never held me. everyone was
little bridges. i walked the dog
around the block until it became an orbit.
you watched snow out your window.
its glow in the morning a pervasive white bulb. 
how could i tell you i didn't know
what we were anymore? not as lovers but
as beings. was i just a reflection & not
the body on the other side? when would spring
save us? i was so so wrong. the winter was unrelenting.
there you stared like a prophet or a compass,
warm next to me on train rides to & from a monster.
the television whispered, "alright alright."
neighbors waltzing with chair.
forecast for three inches of snow
brimming in the brown-grey static night.