fire poem 

in the days after the power went out
we left the stove clock remained off by 
four hours & eighteen minutes.
everything had been a new dark.
electric tea lights on the counter
blinked like orange eyes. hardly lit anything.
your face in the glow 
of our tiny fallible flames 
deep with shadows. somehow
the train still rushed by,
sent a howl through our apartment.
shadows shoved each other
from room to room. my room
with no windows sealed itself up.
a bruise or sore. speckled carpet.
knees in the closet. hands
on the ceiling. you, shifting
in your own room with
window cracked open. smell of
fire. the buildings that burned
up the street. in some sense
they still burn. who will
put me out if i become those buildings? 
stains on our irises
from watching. streak of orange.
streak of bronze. sink water.
hallway getting longer or louder.
i did not know you anymore.
in the dark, my face dripped 
like wax. your eyes were wide
as quarters. when you touched me
you might as well have been touching
a pile of ash--the skeletons 
of the buildings. i was so close
to letting the air
do what it could 
& there you were
walking the hallway
with your staircase feet.
second floor became fourth & eigth.
soon we lived above the city
in a huge spire. i said to you
"there is the ocean" & "there is
the park" & "there is 
my body on the ground."
no, not the last one. 
we flickered. where would be go
if not here? we said
someday we'll leave this place
& in the morning 
the sun was ashamed &
the clock was still behind.

self / dissection 

more than one layer of skin. 
i'm not speaking
scientifically, i mean 
peeling. petal or fruit flesh.
stem or sinew. what way
do you open? i do not have
the same god or father
i had three years ago.
i open eager &
fearful. three vials of blood.
broken elbow turned boomarang. 
for me, a knife is always a harvestor.
online you can order specimens
for dissection. you don't have to be
a scientist, but then again,
science hovers over all of us.
i used to be a scientist 
of dead birds. i used to pluck out
my own dead feathers & dead beak
& dead talons & the dead sky
ate holes in my bones.
one day i neglected science 
to i turned myself
into a mushroom & i sat there
in warm mucky shade. 
now, yes, i am full of skin again.
online they have all kinds 
of potential dissection bodies. a frog 
splayed talismen wide.
buckets & buckets of worms.
fetal pigs, still waiting 
to be born with their eyes
pressed shut. i was one of them 
& i laid in preserving fluids 
waiting for the good great scapel
to age me into a human.
i dreamed of running
through tall grass & letting
my body sever apart. dropping organs
in the reeds. 
heart. lung. liver.
a body is held together
by very little. single red thread.
i have done it many times,
took a scissors around
the neck of the thread
& tugged at it gentley.
i've said to the thread 
"you want to come apart."
how easily we could be scattered
or jarred or inspected. who would want me
who would want me. a finger. 
a tongue. a shoulder.
i want to put myself 
on the dissection specimen website
but i find no place to offer
so instead i go to the bathroom mirror.
the face is a plate. 
my nose wants
to be cut off & so does
my left eye. they tell me
it's for the sake of discovery.
i tell my body
to wait. in the backyard 
i crouch until i'm a thin
sliver of ivy creeping
between rocks. i will stay here
until my wild unwinding passes.
i am nothing worth
unearthing. somewhere, 
boxes & boxes
of specimens are being shipped.
fetal pig. 
small hooves. closed eyes.
there have been
millions dissected already.
an ancestory 
of still birth. no knew bones.
a repetition. layer 
after layer of skin.

hall light

when left on too long
the hall light in my parents house
trips the breaker 
& the whole upstairs goes dark.
when i was little,
i was the cause of this
at least once a week. 
my hand reaching up 
to flick the white switch 
at the entrance of the hall.
darkness banished in an instant.
what a long passage
for a young girl. the hall was
'L' shaped & i used to fear
what could lurk 
right around the bend. 
i didn't have a specific monster
in mind, just an empty wondering. 
sometimes my parent's door
would lay open & the shadows
from in there bled
into the bright yellow-walled
passage. their room was 
deep bruise purple.
my room's walls 
were green. not lush
but young. the brightness
of the hall. its brevity.
my father's voice reminding me 
to shut the light off
when i reached the other side.
was my forgetting willfull?
or maybe i believed 
i could leave the glow
just a little longer.
always a second too much.
instant darkness 
& my body in the midst of it.
my father's foot steps 
coming up the stairs behind me
& his reprimands
"what did i tell you what did
i tell you." 
"i'm sorry. i'm sorry."
floor of my room
where i sat & counted
specks in the carpet pattern.
the wires of the house
knotted up with each other
in conspiracy.

of a heavy god 

i am so scared of my own body.
i can feel several stones 
inside. 
two in my chest. one right behind
the skin of my forehead.
several up & down my arms.
they are round & smooth. 
if i go to swim in the lake
i'll sink
all the way to the bottom
& no one will be able 
to lift me out. 
i am heavy as in 
"bolder" & "sixteen wheel truck."
i lay on my back in bed
& look up towards the ceiling
hoping for a piece 
to fall down on me
soft as a bird 
falls from a tree.
there is no kind of touch
i want. 
with one hand
i move across my skin
& touch all the tender places
of dull hurt & ache.
praying is the truest form
of desperation. 
i told someone a few years ago
"i want to write
about praying" when i really meant
"i want to write about
asking for saving."
i could say "salvation"
but it sounds too much 
like jesus. i keep looking
for a quick reason
my body is 
so full of rock. i wash my face.
i brush my teeth.
i dream of a next year world
when nothing hurt at all
& i am safe from blood &
searching web md to try
to find a way 
to survive. who am i 
released from all these
layers of fear? 
i lied. i want to be held.
i want to be a loaf of bread
or at least a crowbar.
i want to float 
across the lake 
& pretend to be
a screensaver. dear god,
i am sorry i am asking this way.
i know it's not 
a kind way to be,
to ask only when you are
out of other options
but will you pull them out,
the stones, one by one,
& lay them on my end table.
in exchange i will
try harder to be
a beautiful person.
i will be so light
a wind will make
a feather of me.

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.