longing

on the fold-out sofa we sleep like pears.
i ripe planet bruise & you arcana like
a real wizard. what will we do 
with all this future? 
tangled in each other's knees i tell you
i'm going to walk over the next mountain
& never come back. i had a dream 
everyone was indifferent to my mouth.
i won't ever beg to be kissed but
so much of me wants him to press me.
i ignore the jupiter of this whole situation.
where is this all going? are we 
going to get married like real men?
in the new year i will hopefully
have fewer wasps in the walls of the house.
my bed might arrive complete 
with a love poem. once someone told me
a bed is only for planting 
a lemon tree. i halved my brothers
so they could be tenors. 
my daughter is a thief.
i was never good at teaching morals.
she sleeps on the floor of my life.
you tell me we're not going anywhere
& i have nothing to add so i transform
into a marble & roll under the sofa
where the rats watch Sports Center.
they are all yankees fans. tidbits of
jewels & gold. the rats have been hoarding.
or, maybe we've been hoarding our humanhood
from the rats. my knees have recently 
become plastic bottle caps i have to replace
every other day. useless body machine.
i need a good workout video to cure me.
will you kiss me then? will you tell me
i am a beautiful sycamore? 
a lemon falls down in between us in bed.
the sun oozes through the window.
i don't want to get up yet.

billions

in the river of plastic gold coins everyone is 
a billionaire. floating on our backs. our crinkling 
minted glories. we all have houses like cities 
& we all have peanut butter imported from the moon.
our money talks to itself in the vault at night
when outside the iron gates slink the danger
of snakes & their poverty. it is important 
to take a step back & observe ours lives as fiction.
where are the symbols ringing? a name could 
signal a tragic death if money isn't thrown at it. 
we build private gardens full of new spiraling fruits
& bright weeping flowers. a jar of tears.
lockets sprouting from branches. 
we trade stories of being children who grew up
with nothing but windows to eat. carry money
in all our pockets. it's fake money but all money
is fake money. jokes about starvation.
the river gushing without a thought of drought.
no one asks where the coins flow from
because that might kill our high. 
unlike fairies, disbelief in money 
only makes it stronger. we have to ride this
while we can. what about a chocolate fountain? 
what about a ski slope? what about replacing the stairs
with slides? in the yard are the bones 
of our grandmothers. could money resurrect
their bones? it certainly could. 
we want them to make dinner just like they used to. 
the stove is automatic
& so are the doors & so are the dogs.
we don't really love each other. no not at all
but money without company is too sad
so we keep each other around & make toasts
to each other & hold séance when possible.
mostly, we talk about snakes & how they'll never know
what it's like to have our squareish teeth
or what it's like to open a catalog
& order anything we want. a carrot juicer
& a new wallet. yes, they'll just crawl
on their way towards the nest where they knot
with each other in brilliant patterns.
my one & only secret is sometimes
i wish i was a snake. also, once i ate a coin
& i still feel it where my lungs should be.
i breathe gold. fake gold but
but gold all the same.  
 

alone-ism 

i insert a tooth pick into the moon. not done. 
preheat the sound of my voice to 450
where all the squash turn soft & edible. 
my phone is a cicada & i scream & it screams.
we all scream for tuesday.
why doesn't anyone like summer & sweat?
there's no point in being alive
if you don't get to feel burning blacktop. 
mars is full of the perfect kind of blood.
rachel told me if i ever need an organ
she's a universal donor. 
my blood type is negative something.
maybe sadness is in my blood.
everything hereditary is red. 
some families have heirlooms 
but my family just has the collective memory 
of a chicken coop in the backyard
where there now grows a pine tree.
mow the future. green every single sunday.
i miss the song you used to sing to me
when i was a girl & you were waiting
on the other end of a phone.
forgive me, i am a poet who abuses 
the "you." frank o'hara said
to put the poem squarely between 
you & another person. some asked me yesterday
if i live alone & i tried to search
for a way to say "no." this year
will implode & i do not have the proper gear.
mars is up there all full of blood
while people are dying. 
i take one of my syringes & i tell the planet
"i am doing this for humanity."
up on my roof i manage to prick the surface
& draw up the plunger. thick coarse blood.
mars cries because i've taken from him. 
i would feel violated too 
if someone stole my blood in the night.
actually, that happens often. 
i pay for sleep in vials of blood
to the demon with the moon face.
how long does you heart let you rest?
i miss you so very much. 
the void in the kitchen is stretching its arms
& reaching to open the front door.
inside i am safe. outside who knows
what kind of bears have claim on this street.
the moon is finally ready. crumbs rain down. 
one giant biscuit which i feel guilty about.
if i had company we would share this delicacy 
but instead i will divide it up
& save the rest in the freezer just like i do
with browning bananas & the blood of mars.
food for another day & another & another.
i promise i am trying to leave this house
but the solar system here is fresh 
& caramelizing. come again in a few years.

ANCESTRY

my grandmother was full of bees.

the nest at the back of her throat.

i use the word “throat” too much in poems

because so much of my life has been about what

what enters me. to swallow or not to swallow.

a single bee slipping out as she speaks–

landing on her overripe pears. their skins

slipping off to reveal to sweet melting beneath.

i take off my clothing in front of windows, i always have.

i’m sick of weekends & tuesdays. i’m sick

of family trees. all their baby branches.

when am i going to dislodge

& plant my finger nails in the garden?

grow a family of gourds. pollinate a plum tree

with my grandmother’s bees.

i used to beg my mom for her to plant us

a crab apple tree. she explained you can’t eat

crab apples. i liked them for their smallness–

imagined placing on my tongue. all the bees

would gather there in our yard & have weddings

over & over all june. my grandmother died

on a cold day in january. all her bones turned to dust

& only the bees were left.

i am scared that i am losing

everyone i know to distance. i have started sending letters

with no return address to people i never met.

i slip a single bee inside.

sometimes i find a bee waiting on my porch.

not a real bee but a wasp or a hornet. i know they’re looking

for ancestry. digging in the flesh of this town

for someone to latch into. i open my mouth

in the mirror to check for nests.

nothing yet.

forgive i slept very poorly last night

so i’m trying to use this poem

as an offering to the bugs

who walk my house while i sleep.

they did not have their dancing

as usual because i was out there

stalking the hallway with my iPhone light

& my worries.

now, on my ladybug abacus i’m trying to count

how many blood cells i have in my body

but it’s hard with all the wandering.

i say, “please hold still.”

i found the first lady bug

exploring my wall & i asked her

“will you help me measure?”

i’m hoping for an even number

most people have somewhere

in the trillions. what if i have

only a few? what then?

it’s okay to give up.

a doctor siphons out all my blood

& she sends my cells to a water park

where they can live out their fantasies

to be children again. if my ovaries

have dreams they are probably

about having lots of pink little children.

i don’t dream much at all anymore

just nightmares of school shooters

& roller coasters. i heard a woman’s voice

at the far end of my apartment

& i thought “oh no not haunted again.”

follows me everywhere. the lady bugs

want nothing to do with my worries.

you don’t understand because

you’re just bugs but my life is held together

by door knobs & measuring cups &

waking up perfectly at 7am. if i don’t do these things

then all your wings will fall off.

when the blood returns it sings

so i vibrate with longing. maybe today

i will go down to the lake & pretend

to be a lady bug or just a cell.

what am i doing here

in all this mess? i turn all the light out

& pretend it’s not morning.

lichen & trechorous september 

a headless man has been visiting our block.
he is carrying a sachel full of 
golden apples & looking for a lost horse.
i bought ear plugs for just this reason.
when the hauntings start this early in fall
you know it's best not to leave your own house.
of course, inside my door is no different.
the lichens grow across the walls.
they sing of becoming one big ruffled dress.
i tell them to hush as the moon arrives
& i close the blinds so it doesn't see me.
everyone is super romantic about the moon
but they are naive. the moon could eat anyone.
look, can you see the line of its jaw?
swooping down it will coax you 
from your guardedness with poetry
& then snap--swallow you whole. leave nothing
but your shoes. i need to survive this year
so that next year i can wear a dress.
the lichens ask if they can be my mother
& i tell them they can for now. 
i have no energy for blush or eyeshadow.
the horse comes in through my cracked window
& i shoo it out again. i point to 
the headless man but the horse shakes his head.
we never want who is looking for us. 
i am certain someone wants to find me.
i send letters to god. i send postcards
to ghosts from places i've lived. 
the dark figure of my parent's house
& the woman with only a face 
who just wanted to swallow a needle.
all the while the lichens get closer,
start climbing my legs. i tell them 
they should take their time. we have 
so many months to pass but they want
to climb right now. all over me.
a great rippling green. i laugh.
i am finally a tree. finally don't have to eat
anything but light. outside the window
the horse is running away even as 
the headless man pleads with her.
he holds a golden apple in each hand
but she is gone. are we always cruel 
to all those who love us too much? 
i made a scale for weighting my heart 
against a feather. my heart is very heavy.
i am a lichen queen. tomorrow when it rains 
i'll leave all the windows & doors open
& see who arrives.

self-diagnosis

i'm full of bees. there is a watermelon 
growing in my heart. single black seed took hold
& now i'm swelling. a whale is crossing 
my breatplate. a hurricane in my throat.
my sense of time is aching. i wake up 
in one week & go to sleep in another.
september is here to hurt me & i'm plagued
with june. a firefly slipped under my eyelids 
& now i light up all night. sit up in bed 
& try not to cry. i know this is a dramatic place
in the poem to pause & say i'm grateful for 
your company. will you drive me to the nearest
funeral home? i'm not ready but i have ideas
for my ashes. i want to become a shade
of ink or paint. stippling took over my face.
i probably need glasses either that or the world
is just getting more blurry for everyone.
why isn't sleep just a button we push
in the roof of our mouths. a ginger root exists
where each lung used to be. i have been trying
to make peace with my healing but i hate 
pillow & i hate pills & i hate being gentle 
with myself. how could i deserve that?
here i am with all these raccoon under my tongue.
i am scavenging for words. headache or brain pressure
or morgue or antidote or relief. come vaccine me
into a new year. i'm aiming for january.
i want to be alive by then. how long can i wait
for my body to be obdient again. all i'm asking for
is to control the masochism. i got am email 
that told me i'm overweight & i replied to the machine
"will you help me remove the whale or at least
the bees?" it isn't autumn yet but my hair falls out
like leaves. here comes the overcast. 
please lift me up like a charcuterie platter
& sample. tell, what do you think is wrong?

evidence of haunting 

i was babysat by ghosts. basinette down
into the basement where i rocked 
to the knocking of pipes. still, only once in awhile
did i see a full body apparition,
tall murky woman with long white hair.
she would moan & cover her eyes. 
our house had too many mirrors.
i learned my face was not always 
my face--beneath the surface 
it could easily shift into seance.
put the ouija board key in my mouth.
a piano playing itself. glasses falling 
from cabinets & making a mash of glass.
a phantom hand, removing a shard 
from my bare foot. were they envious
of my flesh, all ripe & soft?
tv turning itself on to the shopping channel.
soon, a set of brownie pans 
arrived without warning. 
a package often fell from the ceiling.
new towels & stuffed animals & once 
arrive a candelabra already lit.
flames can survive a lot of silence. 
i don't remember any of this-- 
i was a baby of course but 
when i hold my palms up to the light
to inspect i can see evidence 
of haunting. i know my parents
summoned them with a pentagram 
in the damp basement, holding hands
& reciting spells in latin. of course,
none of this is true. my babysitters
were young girls with curly hair
& freckles. they crossed their legs
& once in while left me alone
in my bed room where i might
cover my eyes & turn around.
me, my own little 
music box. a ghost putting his hands
on my shoulders to steady me. 
blinking open i said
"hello? hello?" that's still me
in the middle of a room 
spinning. my babysitter is
a skeleton. no one is watching me.

men hating parable (don't worry!) 

all my earrings turned to flies & flew off.
i bought fish hooks & forgot about the barb
so now i have fish hook earrings forever.
when i say i hate men i don't mean all the time.
i am not a fan of back pedaling though
so i'm going to take this on. men are the reason
for drought. the water is sick of becoming their mirrors.
men are the reason for multiple locks 
on any given door. men once took the moon down
& played kickball with it & that's why
there are so many bruises on its surface.
men peer in my window & ask what i'm doing here
& i always reply "i'm fishing."
there are moments where i could love them.
most of my crushes are instense & brief.
without my earrings i don't know
how i'm going to woo anyone. i need a new crush
because my last one is gone. i saw this man
in town for weeks. he had long black hair
& a purple bandana & black painted nails.
i hoped he worshiped satan or something cool
then i saw him with a girl & they held hands 
& i clapsed my own hands together like an acolyte
to walk home. the mouth is the fastest healing body part
so i take a pocket knife to my cheek & craft
a window. i made a little version of myself
to watch the world from my own mouth.
i don't know if i count in the group "men"
but i probably do. it's best to monitor this 
for future turmoil. what i really want 
is for a man to pick me up & carry me 
to a bed of flowers & tell me he loves
my scars & that he wants to look in my window 
to see my miniature self. i am so femme sometimes that
i forget i'm biological. smashing flies on the wall
leaves ugly smudges that never come out 
but at least they are momentos of my earrings.
someday, i'll live somewhere i can be
the body i want to be. i have a pair of heels
who walk the hall in my apartment alone at night.
sometimes in poems i say "house" when i mean
"apartment" because i dream of houses. 
soon this poem will end & i'll stop thinking
about men. one last things though,
next time you see one ask him what he does
with his earrings to keep them 
from becoming insects. 

carcass of a dragonfly on the 6th avenue sidewalk 

metallic angel. hovering survivor 
of the future, what brought you
to the sidewalk where all the gum 
turns scuff ? i have not seen a butterfly 
in years. does a mural count? 
wings of paper. wings of iron. of glass
& of celophane. here comes  
the sound of kneecaps & bustle.
i miss you. i never saw you alive.
where did you travel each day?
in manhattan, did you swallow garbage?
did you sip on cigarette fumes?
i walk & walk & walk through clouds
of people & all their odors + other regrets. 
i never stop not even for an ice cream 
or a handful of mango but here for you
i wanted to stop long enough to collect your soul
in my pockets to show everyone i know.
a train is coming soon 
& we will get on together. 
was there a camera in your heart?
did you mother tell you stories
of august heat? my face becomes 
a mirror & everyone looks at themselves
as i rush. often times, in the city,
a body is more a vessel than before.
coming here coming here. 
i want to deliver you where you 
were going. what kind of burial 
would you like? pristine trinket.
little nothing bird.