non diagnosis

i don't know
where my body is taking me.
i wake up & touch my face 
to search for the source 
of the dull pain beneath 
every corner of my skin.
i am a plate of pink raw chicken,
all the bones stacked in the yard
where the raccoons can make use of them.
i look up diagrams
of lymph nodes & chart myself.
two on either side of the neck,
little pairs. little lovers. 
small soft fruit. who will
harvest me?
i joke with my brother
"i'm dying i'm dying"
& neither of us laughs.
we sit in our family living room
in the dim of one kitchen light.
our father, at the computer in the corner
listening to a standup routine 
in his headphones. he laughs aloud.
every so often 
i try to pretend 
it's all in my head. 
the reader will want to know
what is wrong with me
but i have no answers.
lately i have felt like
a spool of thread
unwinding & unwinding
coming close to some sort
of reveal. i gaze into my phone
& ask a doctor to please rise
from the screen to save me.
who doesn't want 
to be saved by a science.
i will fill however many
capules they want 
with my blood. crimson & tired.
in the mirror, i can see
all my blood at once.
i would not even be
a lake. a little pool
where pigeons could
wash their wings in red.
no one is coming
to fix me.

lifeguard 

a lifeguard hovers nearby 
at all times
& tells me to be careful
with my wants. lately, i have been
drifting farther & farther
from being a skin person. 
on my altar i have
a mason jar full of lake water
& inside grows a great snake.
soon i will release him
& he will eat up all floor boards.
in my cupboard cheerios 
float like prayer beads.
i count them to be sure none
are missing. my jar of peppermint oil 
is for warding off raccoons
& potential lovers. a few days ago
i could have had a boy in my bed 
but i fell apart & the lifeguard
had to pick me up
piece by piece from the ceiling.
the lifeguard is skeletal
& murky faced. i tell him 
i am not a life to be guarded
but he doesn't move. stays here.
never eats, just stares forward & forward.
translucent skin. hollow eyes.
crosses his arms. blows his
long wooden whistle
whenever i try to think 
about drowning myself
in the lake which isn't too often
but is more often than you might
imagine. you have to understand.
there's no sting to the water
like the ocean. the water
is totally at peace. my hair
floats up around me like a halo
& for a moment i am stillness.
the lifeguard yanks me out
by my shoulders. he says
"breathe now" & i do. the air is
mountain-thick & heavy.
i want a deeper pool of water &
a string of smooth stones &
a staircase leading to water. i want
the lifeguard to move on
& fixate on someone else's body.
i will be alright. leave me
to my death brushes. the snake
is swelling & soon it will be
large enough to be released.
i am hoping it will eat the lifeguard
though i will likely not be able
to follow through with that.
do you ever make terrible plans 
just to keep going? i imagine
pulling the lifeguard down
into the lake with me--
looking into his eyes & showing him
just what it feels like there.
he would stay. cross his legs 
& sink & sink-- slip away 
into the depths. that's not even
what i want. i don't know 
what i want but i am hungry
for a quiet the bedroom 
& the door haven't given me.
dear lifeguard, sleep next to me
tonight & i promise
to be a more gentle version
of my soul. i'll tell you 
a story of the ocean 
i used to visit as a child
if you tell me why 
you can't let me hold 
my breath.

blue bike 

i used to pedal barefoot 
through town on my blue bike.
i was ten years old 
& my thighs were thick
with this june. in my bedroom
i'd try over & over to read books
but the words went to water &
all the pages wilted.
by the covers i would invent 
what each was about. 
my favorite was an indigo
hard-cover book with a gilded metal door
on the front. i told myself
in myself i was looking for that door
around town. 
tree branch outside my window.
morning birds laughing. downstairs
my family was a collection of hands.
that summer i learned to make mac & cheese
for myself & i knew that meant
i could survive now on my own.
wooden spoon in the metal bowl.
scent of fresh boiling water. 
pinch of salt.
the pedals had spiked metal grips
that dug into my callous feet
but i insisted on riding barefoot anyway.
at the playground i'd wander,
hoping no one else would be there.
at the far end where the old tree stood
i could imagine myself escaped--
away all that is impending 
for a ten-year-old. i was aware
i would soon need to wear a bra
& that most ten-year-olds
didn't survey the town alone
on their blue bikes & that 
i had five freckles on my face,
skipping across my nose
like pebbles. crouched, 
i broke twigs & left the refuse
before pedaling home.
spokes cutting through air.

anti-litany for an emergency room 

thank you, chorus of hooks, 
for your bedside company. all i know
about death is off-white
& still microwaving. a toilet flushes
on the other side of the wall. 
who are you rowing
to the other side? a cell phone battery 
will not carry us that far. 
i call a god dowm metal-armed.
peer into my body 
with the right telescope. 
my heart is a bowling asking.
i want to live i want to live
i say with on ly 2 out 3 mouths.
the remaining 1 mouth is always
the traitor--we are moving now
from spine to wire. trace 
soul's vibrations. 
they can't probably ever
replicate the human brain digitally.
we will probably only ever be
flesh & flesh & flesh. this will not
be downloaded but maybe if placed
in the soil i would be television
into legend. when the demons said, 
"we are legion" they meant
they were all linking elbows 
before they jumped from the side
of the cliff. all those bible pigs.
they meant the skin will always get you.
only 2 out of 3 neons go ceiling.
will this be the right IV? do you like
living alone? maybe i don't know
maybe i don't know. i used to see
so many people al lthe time.
their thumb-prints like mandalas
on our doorknob. no one to call.
i live in a fishbowl without water
or scales. 10 stickers. what else
can we do for you? i want to feel
less real but totally safe. can you take away
all the sensation sounds. i feel
so loud & turquoise. do you want
to hurt yourself? of course i do--
has there ever been a kind of 
self preservation that doesn't involve
self harm. some people think the brain thing
is possible-- that once downloaded
you would just think differently.
i don't think so-- i think there are changes
that render us unrecognizable 
to even our memories. wash your hands
before entering. plastic cornucopia.
Oh arch! Oh emergency! deliver me soon.
a packaged fever for missing children.
the machine will know
what to do. i text a pigeon:
don't worry i am not at all dying 
just becoming a lab result. not my chest though
we are just experimenting 
with potential futures. uber doesn't find you
in these parts you need to follow 
a thread of light home.

now, i'm going to show you
how i take the sun down from the sky
without getting burned.

this has to happen once 
every few weeks 
for cleaning. 
you might ask, why us?
but it is not our job
to question the universe's needs.
first, you will require
the tallest tree you can find.
a ladder will not do, only a tree
knows how to bend. i have
a favorite tree in the woods
& i climb the branches
like a vine. 
birds rush away,
knowing the impending heat.
once up above the world
i dream of feathers, 
a whole jar of feathers
all floating down to the dirt.
who am i? 
i am just a warm fragment,
a sliver of sun 
coils in me.
two oven mitts & a pair
of tongs. i clamp the sun's edge
& tug until it descends easy
as bowl of lettuce tumbling
from a shelf. don't worry.
it is hard to break the sun.
what it really needs 
is for you to tell it a story.
hold the sun tight
& invent something about love--
tell the fire that you
are so deeply in love that 
you have not slept for three nights.
it does not have to be
even close to the truth.
in fact, it is better
you not confess to the sun
because then whenever you feel heat
you'll remember the sun
knows all your secrets.
the sun wants to be awed.
up there, he is lonely.
he wants to feel known. you can
ask him questions too
like "who was your first love?"
& "where will you hover tonight?"
he will not answer but
his fire will flare. 
you might be wondering
"what about us?" who will 
take us down from our beds
& know us? 
we are not celestial
bodies. we are just 
boys who pass a secret from 
father to son & father to son.
what happens if we stop?
we don't know. no one 
has ever stopped. 
you must never stop. 
crawl up to the sun, now.
tell me have haven't been curious 
about the orange whirl
& the voice of heat?
go to the sun. let your shadow
be tugged from your body
long & wild
& come back to me. 
to tell me the story
you told into the glow.

alone

on a night before she was dying, 
my grandmother sits alone 
in her apartment
on the bottom floor of the complex.
muffled feet walk above.
a distant laughter maybe 
from the hall maybe 
the courtyard. orange sun rest 
draws long shadows from 
the sofa & the arm chair
& the thin legs of the dining room table.
she touches 
the leaves of her fern near the window,
rubbery texture. 
rustling green.
there is nothing on television
but a PBS travel show & she is sick
of travel shows. 
italy & prague 
& ireland & greece. she cradles
the remote like a forgotten limb
with the device shut off 
& the quiet of the place settling in.
her cat slips out 
from under the bed,
darting to the next room.
her sweet little ghost. he deserves 
a bowl of milk. he deserves 
a handful of fish flakes. 
soft dull peach carpet beneath
her feet. a hand pressed
to the wall to keep her steady.
does she think of her daughters
or her grand children? 
does she imagine
our loneliness like
i try to imagine her's? 
though really, what do i know 
of those nights,
hundreds of them in a row,
where she listened to the walls
until sleep came? 
what can any of us know
of another's secret lives?
what did she do 
with her hands? 
was the oven
a mother or a device? 
was television good company 
or mirage? the tiles
in her bathroom were pink.
sitting on the edge of the bath tub
did she try to count
how many there were in a row?
i am counting the tiles
on my bathroom floor tonight
while orange sunset light
intrudes through the window.
one, two, three... and so on. 

i'm taking you to meet my family

i'm taking you to meet my family.
outside, it's bright early fog.
our garden grew in reverse this year,
all the flowers pressing themselves
deeper into the soil.
we dug to unearth them 
but in the air they crumbled
& fall apart. in our cupped hands
we held the petals. we wanted to arrive
with boquer fists.
you ask if my parent know 
we're in love & i tell you 
of course they don't-- who would trust
their family with that kind of truth?
i think of my family
in their glass thrones 
& their spectacles. 
some lay in fish tanks. some in jars.
i think about high school
& going to a boyfriend's family reunion.
i had a cheap sequin purse i held
the whole time like 
a screaming infant. a carousel 
of aunts & uncles visited me
to ask who i was. my boyfriend pointed out
which cousins he thought were hot.
men played horse shoes. 
clang of metal against earth.
i regret this. you don't want
to see them. you don't need
to see them. is family 
a secret or a story? no,
a story is always a kind of lie.
yes, i prefer my family
as a story. when i first told you
about them i said we lived
in a kingdom of corn
& woven sidewalks. i told you
our windows were made
of sugar. none of this was a lie
only all of it is.
i hold your hand & your tremble.
the front door of a house
rises like a wave. i tell you
we can go back & we can pretend
to be orphans. orphaned poets
who found each other 
in a knot of city & lamp light. 
you weep & everything goes
funhouse & gold. 
next thing i know 
i'm in a room alone
with my father. he is 
a raven this time. he clutches
a ring in his beak 
& laughs then i'm in 
a bad tub with my mother.
she pretend to be drowning
& then laughs at
my frantic response.
blinking back i'm with you again
& we keep walking through
the same doorway over & over
but i won't stick. 
come on come on, you say.
nothing. no where to walk into.
i tell you i want 
to try again someday 
but you are hurt 
& i do not try to appease
you with another story.

future poem

a puppet show is opening 
in my vestibule. everyone is a coat
is a coat. a zipper across
a ceiling. across your back.
for all the times i've tried
to jump off rooves
someone should give me
a pair of wings. in a dream last night
my mother told me she was
so sad i didn't take eucharist.
a single wafer replaces
my window. i eat a fleck of glass
i find on the sidewalk
& that shard bisects me.
i am 1/2 & 1/2 of a melancholy person.
when the thunder comes
i have a jar ready to catch it.
have you ever tried
forgetting your legs 
in the backyard where they'll
cause you less grief?
in the back seat of his car
he was a stray dog & so was i.
don't worry we just
cashed our tails. i am still
a virgin in some senses of the word.
a chimney can be
a hiding place.
who left the sink running?
i have a oven full 
of waiting. the snakes
are out & they are hungry 
for appendages. 
can you imagine
a world without your wrists?
let me show it to you.
a serrated knife
is all you need is all
you need. there is nothing
a bandaide & a story
can't hide. why is
your wrist covered?
who planted this staircase
to nowhere? 
a mannequin is writing
new laws that could free us
if they were written
in ink & not clear nectar.
the end is always sweeter 
than the beginning.
i pull the lids
off ice cream containers 
& scatter them around the living room.
who are you waiting for? who
are you still waiting for?
a blue car honks outside my house.
me? not for me.
i lay & become a futon.
my dad is eating 
a telephone phone. the puppet show
goes on without an audience.
i clap to let them know
i'm trying.

face recognition

i kneel before the eye.
my bones are a series
of distances & i ask
the iris to trace me.
make a map 
of my features.
how long is it from
cheek bone to cheek bone?
i wonder if you would be able
to answer this
if, in a second, you had to pluck
my face from a bouquet.
could you stare & know
how wide my lips are? the crests
of my brows?
i want to be measured 
in your phantom knuckles & teeth.
the eye sees me clearly 
like i've never 
witnessed myself. 
when you looked at me
in the dark
of the school yard in the 
dark of your bedroom in the dark
of your back seat 
in the dark of the dark
did you see what a technology does?
all my features
aligned to make a pattern.
when you put your thumb
to my chin 
did you plant
a reference point there?
i am not an eye at all
but when i view your face 
you print a tangible wreckage.
i blink & so does the eye.
the eye asks me
to hold still,
so i listen. reads me quickly
without hesitation.
it knows where i am going
& who i am going to be.
you kissed
my forehead as if i wasn't
just a template
& then you cupped 
another face after another face,
pouring over them 
while i turned
turned to a singular mirror
dangling above a sink.
i took a ruler
& i measured the length
of my nose. jaw height
forehead width. 
all my featurers accounted for.
i had to know 
more than you knew. 

organ

the organ tuner comes to my door
with his box of tools 
& his thick spectacles.
he doesn't knock, just enters
& i am sitting
on the blue sofa with my legs crossed
so i uncross them to appear 
more manly. he reminds me
"it is important to be genuine"
& i think "my gender
is leaking out." he kneels
& tells me to open wide.
i do, i open my mouth
as wide as a manhole 
& the organ tuner slips
inside to find the instrument.
no, not organ like spleen
or heart. organ like
pipes & keys. there is an old one
deep down in the pit 
of my being. i have never played it
but i know it is there. 
i did not call the organ tuner
he just sensed the absent tune
& he came. this is what he does,
walking town to town 
just to ask another device
what sounds it knows.
i know my teeth are all piano
or maybe even keyboard.
he plays a song inside me
one of falling rocks & sad oceans.
i want him to never leave
& to keep tuning & tuning.
the notes plop onto the living room floor.
i am a cathedral or maybe
a concert hall. i close my mouth
& think, yes i will keep him.
he plays & plays on into the night.
he plays for his release & for
the next lick of daylight.
when i finally let him go
a whole day has passed.
i open wide & out he scrambles,
toolbox open & glasses askew.
he rises to kiss my forehead 
& tell me to try singing more often
before he runs away.
this heavy machinery 
still sitting & thrumming
with the work of his hands.
i want to crawl inside myself
& press the keys like he did--
feel the warmth where
he sat on the wooden stool. 
the organ shrinks & shrinks
until i can't remember
where it sat in my body 
at all. i whistle 
the last song he played
until even that melody 
unravels & i am left
with the four walls
& the front door & my hands.