perennial 

your face was like the orange potted mum
i bought & cradled home from the farmer's market.
buckled in the backseat like a fresh infant.
mine mine mine. i peered between your winks
& your bones. i wanted to follow 
every inch of your green.
yellow flower irises. all your necks.
i was its lover & i left the plant
out on the porch.  
the breeze rummaged in our october sadness. 
i knew you were unloving me
but kept tracing the season: corn husks 
& drunk apples & mums.
a pair of keys. a missing tooth.
dead leaves sticking to the backs
of our legs. i wanted nothing more
than a porch to decorate or a pumpkin 
to wear as a skull. the mums
made fists & knocked
on the screen door. the mums
laughed at innapropriate moments.
hurt your feelings & stole your tooth brush.
open palm, i would come outside
to stroke the plant like how
i used to caress your cheek.
i couldn't help but think of "mum"
& "mother." our mothers hovering
over us like skeletal trees. i sent you
a postcard from up the hall saying 
"we should take a walk." 
you were always the better seer,
could witness a bee disrobing
or the last leaf dropping 
from the yard maple. me, i distract myself.
i started conversations with different
flowers in the mum nest. i held your hand
& he ambled through a year or more.
took our shoes off & planted them
in the hardening winter soil.
alone, i pluck flowers from the bush
& pocket them. you pry bark
from a dead tree i cannot see. 
gone but my love pangs are perennial.
again & again. your knuckles
& the mums still sitting here
with their teeth clenched. ready to sob.
gone now too. just the black plastic pot
tipped over on its forehead.
your mother, my mother still
looming like a lost promise.
do you miss me this time of year?

animals who lie like i want to

i watch the earthworms promise
winter is almost over. they are frozen
like hyphens all across the driveway.
january is a jungle of yearning.
i discover two house centipedes 
who both claim to have found god.
crazy with salvation they 
run the walls. their legs multiply.
i kill one & the other believes
it was just part of god's plan. hides himself 
& prays a miniature rosary.
the songbirds tell everyone who walks by
soon you'll be a new person.
i don't know if that's even what i need.
often times "new" just just a synonym 
for "extract." extract this person
who i have been living. i met 
a cow in the pasture & she was 
making convenants with the color green.
she assured me i would live a year longer
than i think i will. i know three people
who died last month but they don't really
seem dead. once i slept with a boy
whose cat tried to pass me
a fertility pamphlet & explained i would
make a good mother. i thanked him
& folded the glossy paper tight. i would be
so afraid of having someone depend on me.
already, the insects in my home
depend on me for stories & scraps.
if i could lie like them i would
convince myself that i am only 
just begining--that i have plenty
of time to come undone. one finger
& one strand of hair at a time.
i miss the way my heart used to cry water
& how the birds used to feed me in my sleep. 
i have it good though.
i have two lungs & sometimes a bathtub 
& sometimes i eat with my hands 
when no one is looking. a crow
tells me i will find love soon.
i tell the crow to show me where
& he flies off into the clouds.
i cross my legs. i collect feathers
for the future. i carry close
every prophecy, especially 
the ones that are false.

the ulcers in my mouth become portals 

where are you widening? 
i'm no stranger to stigmata 
& other blights. root with my tongue
in the reeds. you kissed me 
like a jungle flower. i'm a collage 
of sting. i don't want to be sewn back up.
i want to follow the openings 
until there's no more tunnel 
or till. sharp red gum. i am chewing
on the length of our hearts.
i want to know how 
much sadness a throat can burrow 
& how long we are going to wait
for the next pair of teeth.
i am missing every once-flat skin 
where we used to take our biting.
&, like a bird feeder, you parcel 
yourself into like coins. 
the trick is to tell the portal
you can't be gone very long.
i disspear into my own skin.
water & worry. we could have been
gate-cutters. we could still 
etch fences on each other's backs.
i want you to be a scissor holder
or at least the knife you search for
in the dim kitchen's light.
i open my mouth for you to see
& the light shines through
all the holes. my perferated 
cheese grater skull. little disco light.
dance myself a new face & you will
crowd-find me & think i'm a new devil. 
in my dreams, i take you 
onto my tongue 
& you sticky-note flicker.
i want to tell you 
what you shouldn't know. here are
all my pockets. look quickly 
they're each getting deeper.

fifth grader 

ducklings grew like dandelions
in the courtyard, contagious as each year.
their egg-selves still vibrating 
like dead moons. amoung them,
we felt like prophets. fifth graders
with ripe knees & knotted hair.
they darted. hid inside our steepeld fingers.
we took turns watching them. their mother,
like any good blouse, screamed & screamed
about the windows & the sun. nearby
the saucony river turned fabric
in the april laughter. i touched 
the torses of trees like the hems 
of skirts. i tried to read books & gave up,
let them turn back into nestlings. 
mothers pushed children from branches.
i fly briefly from the attic
to the front yard & determined
it would be best to stay yellowing 
as long as i could. duck bills brimmed
over the foreheads of buildings.
in gym class we ran laps around the school
& i dreamed of the ducklings asleep
like hot pockets. eventually they got
too old to keep. their legs turned grey.
their eyes sharpened. they argued
with their mother & the janitors who tried
in vain to teach them how to be children.
in life some is always teaching someone else
who is the child. in the rivers
the ducks shed their duck faces 
& never looked back. daffodils squawked.
the macadem spat rubber balls 
back at us. we played & checked
behind our ears for down feather.
at home, i checked my mother
for webbed feet & hands. i took my age 
& held it until it turned smooth 
as river rock. the ducklings swelled
large as obelisks. i could barely sleep
they were so big. i got older though
& the school dissolved. i found yellow
in the strangest places.
now, i want to be someone's child.
i can be as soft as you want. i can tell you 
where the last feathers went. 

autobiography of a 7th grade vampire

i put my fangs in one by one
in my grimy bathroom mirror. wrapped a chain
around my neck. put ear buds in 
& listened to screamo music i didn't really like.
halloween came too quickly that year. we had
a test in biology on plant cells. 
all my vesitcles carried blood 
like tea cups around my body. 
i had too much skin & fat. i imagined 
my bodies processes as i walked to school
in a black leather skirt & torn leggings.
wanted to be truely undead. 
where would i hide in this town?
i would use the old limestone kilns
by the creek as cripts. cross my arms
over my chest & sleep away the sun.
there would be no more memorised structures 
or equations or locker rooms where girls
inspected each other's stomachs. 
face painted dollar-store makeup white. 
some smeared on my hands. i was coming apart
already. wiped my palms on a patch of dead grass.
black lipstick. black fingernails.
i would have to feed on squirrels 
& field mice. even this sounded easier
than hallway-shoes & mouths beating
like bat wings. i loved nothing about my body
for a whole year & more 
but in the costume 
i felt possible. like, in the future
i might hold a then intangible power.
outside, on the walk to school, all the trees
were still performing photosythesis
& the grass too probably. i always thought of it
as little hands scoops sugar
from the sun & stuffing it into thousands 
of miniature lips. i wished i could
feed myself like that. i thought about how vampires
are kind of the opposite of plants. we had to take 
what was not readily replenished.
we had to feed in a way that was
irrevocably detructive. in homeroom
i folded my hands on the desk. winced 
at the orange sun brimming through 
the wide classroom window. wishing
i was immortal. the bell rang.
i forgot the names of half the plant's structures
& just wrote "blood" over & over.
after school i tried to turn into a bat.
but instead followed my thighs
back up the street & across the field
to my home by the corn fields
to take off my face. i could hear
the leaves eating their last bites
before turning red & orange & brown. 

pig heart

pigs swelled like apples
in their fields & thought nothing
of college degrees or science.
they told each other secrets
about teeth & sky. dug their names
in the dirt with hooves.
freshman year of college
we dissected pig hearts
in pairs. i was wearing a white dress
that showed my shoulders.
it might as well have been
a wedding. the organ before us
felt cold. almost a statue.
we did this for Descartes
& his pondering. pages & pages
of heart-thinking. i held
the organ steady while my partner
made the cuts. are humans
the only animals who inspect
like this? with careful precision
&, at the same time, with complete
uncertainty. i can tell you very little
about a pig heart other than
the heft & the bright color.
elsewhere, the pigs
take their curiosities to the ground.
pig study noise & tuck each thought
under tongue. pigs are great
at keep secrets even after death.
i was terrified of the heart.
the world felt red & cold.
i wanted to be full of preservatives.
i wanted never to be pried open
like this. in my dorm room that night
i washed my hands in hot water
until they turned red.
let the lamp light pull my shadow
long against the ragged carpet.
out the window i glimpsed
only briefly, the ghosts of
all the pigs running laughing
on the college green.
i closed the blinds & considered
how all surgeons clothes
are that frothy green just like
the sheet they gave us for the heart.
in the morning the pigs were gone.
i saw their hoof prints & they saw
my hungers.

umbrella

we drank rain from sidewalks.
tongue to concrete. deadly thristy

from walking to mercury & back
in attempts to prove love.

that whole summer was about
confirmations. is the sun really

a pinwheel? is the window really a window?
are you my lover? is this water

laced with sugar? 
is the umbrella real?

i taught you how to blink
& you taught me 

where the weather came from.
you said your father was a cloud purchaser:

he carried pennies & fed them
to the dirt to barter for storms.

meanwhile, in the past, at the umbrella farm, 
the children went to see them sprout

kneeled in the mud & noticed
tiny umbrellas as they peeked

through. some with wooden handles--
some cheap & plastic. april was such

a ratification. the umbrella we bought
needed more time in the soil.

turned inside out at the slightest noise.
we took turns. me saying, "here you 

hold it" & you saying "no you."
the rain holding still in your hair

like jewels. the rain soaking through
my shoulders. a shiver entering

at the base of my spine. wanting 
to want to hold your hand again.

yearning for a dry morning where the grass
was all dead fingers. you should have

called your father & told him
to plead for snow. beg on his knees

for a summer blizzard to hem us together.
rain is known for causing gospel.

not even the weather knows 
what to do with blood. inside the apartment,

the umbrella wilted outside the door.
died & you blinked too many times

& i peered out the window all night.
at the umbrella farm, the newest crop

was too large to be sold. monsterous umbrellas
shadowing everything for miles around. 

glass infection

it began with a the basement stairs,
once wooden little tomb stones 
now turned glass. one step at a time.
foot on slick surface.
i peered right through
to the dusty floor where 
neon mice trade raisins & broken
christmas ornaments slowly disintegrate.
i told no one. often we think 
an impending tradgey is best kept
as contained as possible. i dreamed
of the coming glass as i watched
my mother knit gloves on the couch.
of course we have regular windows
which i pressed my hand to. 
winter has been coming for several years.
next, glass in the bathroom. glass tub.
glass floor looking down into 
the living room. all my family
staring up at me & my bare feet.
we blamed each other. dad raged.
he said the kids had brought the glass
from all their Google-searching.
my brother blamed me even though
he wouldn't speak it aloud. the family queer
is always a cite of illumination:
an eye piece towards if & how
each person wants to see another.
i was easy to blame because my bedroom
happened next. sometimes, they watched
me sleep. my little glass cage.
head lights from the street blaring
through the glass. walls rounded.
i lived spherically. my friends told me
to just leave but i believed
i could show the walls how to harden again.
a secret is just another kind
of glass. after that it spread quicker:
hallway then kitchen then parent's bedroom
then the outside. everyone could see
through us to the other side. 
birds smack into the siding & pieces
shattered like wine glasses.
watched my mother press her face
to her bedroom wall. watched my brother
sprawl out on the floor like a star.
i went down to the basement
to try my own remedies: poems 
& stories & a camera flash. nothing.
amplified feet. a warped flute.
it was me all along though. we are usually
several contagions at any given time. 
i left & the walls inhaled. i stood 
in the driveway & looked 
at the structutre's solidness. 
i crave the glass. it lives 
in one of my fingernails. 
a littled latent
cathedral wall. when i visit
we gather in the yard like birds. 
pretend the house isn't there. 

toy store ouija board

a marionette asks me how old i am 
& i reply seventeen minutes. 
all our fingers are trapped 
in finger cages. the pinwheels
can't handle these gails & 
our bubble wands are bent from blowing.
everyone assumes a toy is a frivolous thing.
no object is more alive. two minutes ago
i was swallowing clouds & trying
to be a teddy bear. or, in other words,
trying to be a man's shelf sleeper. 
i wanted to wait patiently for touch.
a toy is a cite of miniaturing 
or make-realing. i believe in wooden tops
& doll house murders. the toy shop 
teems with unfulfilled 'maybes'.
we take out the ouija board
first to contact our grandfathers 
& then to ask the other side 
how to stop being so bloody. 
hands hovering so close to touching.
bumping each other's knuckles. 
nothing is just a toy because especially
a ouija board. the windows shake.
the adults melt like wax statues.
here we are so close to a truth.
yes or no. spell the future for me 
my plastic dream slate
"T-O-M-O-R-R-O-W." 
we sit & wait for ball-joints
& synthetic hair or at least a wooden heart.
all i really want is to be 
grasped in one hand like an implement.
play with me soon. 

rental car

is everything splendid borrowed?
you let me read your Rita Dove books
& i didn't write in them
knowing i would have to return 
each cracked spine to your shelf. 
your room smelled like cactus candle 
& brushed teeth. the window laughed 
flecks of car tire alley way.  
do you miss what you took from me?
i miss miss removing your shirts
from the laundry bag before you got home.
i would wear them like dresses 
& then place them back, fumbling 
to fold them as they came. last autumn
when i was a made of different
less vibrating molecules
i rented the car i drove to my parent's house. 
grey rain spit water constellations 
on the wind sheild.
the radio came in clear as a knife.
i plugged my phone in & played 
Death Cab for Cutie's Plans from start
to finish. i pretended 
the car was mine even though i only had
four days with it. i forget why
i even came home. the drive from 
New York to corn field Pennsylvania 
dwindled me to nothing but urges.
i wanted to stand in the backyard. i wanted
to walk the dog all the way over 
the waning moon. staring at the car 
in the gravel driveway, it looked terribly
out of place. all shiny & white &
fresh. the insides smelled translucent.
the headlights cut holes in my father.
i said i missed you when i didn't.
i was only thinking about missing the car
& missing this american gasoline freedom.
in my parent's house, we wear couches down
until their stomachs touch carpet.
i do the same. let my shoes come to pieces.
sand my heart down to a mirror. 
i took my brother on a ride 
around the block & i considered
car dealerships. all their newness.
i envied all steering wheels.
you were at home toe-deep in 
your own private encyclopedias 
& maybe sitting by your window. i missed
your ankles. i missed your closet.
tragic ride home. goodbye beautiful life.
the car key like a talisman. you can 
come in & out of love with someone several times
just on the same highway. my life still fits
in back seats of cars i don't own.
turned the radio into a boy &
let his voice lie to me. i gave back
your books one by one without telling you.
in the morning, i dropped the car off
& walked home up Jericho Turnpike
that dreary monday. car horns squawked
like tired old birds.