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.

ritual 

from now on i'm eating only
strawberry seeds. 
as we speak
there are diamond cutters
hunched over gems
making them more valuable.
their blades made of diamonds.
like them, i wear a magnifying glass
& i peer at my subject.
all dissections have nothing to do
with the specimen & everything
to do with what the artist
is looking to find.
i pluck seed after seed 
with tweezers & pour them
into the palm of my hand.
when i get 100 i pour them
into my mouth. there will always be
more diets to be exercised
but trust me this is not
a diet. this is a ritual.
a seed is a future. 
dull as beetle shells.
when eating only when object
you can really focus 
on the taste. in eighth grade
there were a few days i only ate
grapes & now i know everything
about their skin.
in my humming bird heart
i saw the history of grapes--
vines tangled with vines
& their pale white seeds.
diamonds cutting themselves.
strawberries, one by one 
on a plate to be plucked.
before we eat poultry 
we remove all plumage 
& the animal stands there
knowing what will happen next.
prickled pale flesh.
wings bare. a diamond
has zero calories because
it cannot be set on fire
or at least this is what
a Google search tells me.
anyway, i will stick 
to my strawberry seeds
& my processes. a process
for me is a kind of
survival. when i say process
i guess i mean ritual.
when i say ritual 
you could call it an obsession.
i fill rooms with strawberry seeds
in preparation for 
the end of season when 
no strawberries grow 
& there is only darkness.
no, i don't eat grapes
anymore they are too sweet
& diamonds, i have never had one.
the method is 
as important as 
the result. i did not want
to buy the seeds
i wanted to feel the moment
of resistance
before i pulled them
from the surface
of the fruit.

mortal poem 

we buy halloween costumes
even though it's almost august 
& there are few places to haunt.
i am a reaper & you are a vampire.
plastic sithe, plastic teeth.
both in black robes, i tell you
i want to show you a place.
it's night & neither of us
have a flashlight. all around
the ghosts are starting to slip out
of the dirt. ghost of a dead oak tree.
ghost of a coal miner. ghost of 
a speckled song bird. we blend right in
with our sauntering. you ask me
what it means 
to be dead & if somehow
we died without noticing.
i tell you i'm not sure. we both
have always sought out deceased company.
to test our skin we throw
rocks at each other. the rocks 
leave wide purpling bruises 
on our thighs & our chests.
we decide this means we aren't dead.
in myself, i think life is
a catrography of bruises. 
one rock was whitish & smooth.
i run to find it & discover
it is a deer skull. we hunch 
around the bone & the ghosts
of flowers bloom all around. 
i want to wear the skull
& you say you want to find 
a place to rest. 
we find coffins deep 
in the brush left 
by some real ghoul on his way
to the lake or maybe
collecting those 
black round berries.
pull the lids over our faces
& you knock on the side 
of your box so i knock 
on the side of mine. 
i say we could
float down the river in these.
i cross my arms over my chest.
my polyester costume smells 
like rubber dog toys & grass.
closing my eyes 
i imagine the sun rising 
on the forest. as i imagine it
so it happens & i pry the lid off
only to find you were never there.
your coffin, gone. the trees 
all looking up towards the sky.
the trickling of deer hooves
as an animal rushes  
out of sight. i take 
the long walk home
in my hot costume. i lay
the plastic sithe down
by the side of the trail.

domestic disemboident 

in the town made of hands 
even a door knob 
is a warm fist--even a staircase 
could grab you.
my bed, a nest of palms, holds me.
all the fingernails 
with their opalescent shine.
gleam of a nightlight glowing hand.
the walls of my house 
have wrinkled knuckles
& the bathtub prunes
from a recent shower. 
i am not alone at all except
entirely alone. not a single 
mouth in sight. i walk out
onto the sidewalk: back of hands 
& i ask the wrists 
where the bodies live. 
elsewhere? healthy bodies
running across trails 
of solid earth & gravel.
i want to have a healthy body
no longer made of flies.
sometimes my heart escapes
& eats a handful of blueberries.
sometimes i try to escape
& i cry & cry hoping
the hands will wave & say
"hello you are not alone
in your body." but i am
here i am with all my joint
& all my fears. who will
save my from my lungs?
who will pour nectar down my throat.
i breathe in a mouthful
of july & i hold my breath,
counting to ten. i am scared
of dying with only the hands
to watch me. would they take my body
& teach me how to be
only a hand? would another boy
end up in this town
with all his sadness & all his pacing?
who is less trapped than who?
where will you take me?
a hand from the wall
brushes my cheek 
with the cool back
of the hand. i feel the knuckles
& the bones 
& the three little hairs.

adoration

this sunday the sun will rise
like a eucharist wafer,
white & papery behind a hum 
of clouds. i will walk out
inside the town, incense trailing
from my mouth & my nose
& i will think of the bodies
of gods & how desperately
we try to know them. 
the red hot smoldering
at the pit of my self
was lit by a wayward match.
i used to burn myself 
like patchouli or frankincense 
& the smoldering skin
became scabs & the scabs became
the pot holes i drove my car across
through the city 
that one night
when we should have taken the train
but instead got lost over & over.
i miss the menagerie 
of light. i didn't see one firefly 
this whole year-- but this poem
is not about my own saddnesses
this poem is about god
& how i collect wildflowers 
in an attempt to know 
that divine. pink, white, 
& indigo. lay them on the nightstand
to curl up & thin. i don't know
if i have ever prayed--
what i do remember is sitting
in a quiet too-large church
as we all kneeled infront of 
a single eucharist wafer. god is narrow
as a withered mountain flower.
i'd run out of things to say to him
& start listing everything 
i worried about: how will i get
my father to show he loves me, how will
i get the attic unlocked, how will i help
my grandmother's ghost, who is going to
help my mom boil the water
for the pot of pasta. no answer
just a vast wavering. the hard wood
of the pew becoming the forest rising 
around my little home. i could climb a tree
& make wafers of my body up there.
i don't own any gold 
or any silver to hold
my body.

aubade 

the mornning-chatter birds
discuss what they think a stop sign means
while a stray cat rings a service bell
stuck to the torso of a tree.
how can i help you how can
i help you. i put a finger 
to the mouth of a turtle
& he bites off my digit
to the knuckle. who needs
a window when we have rain?
i spend my morning plugging 
all the holes in my body. 
a bandaide here-- a patch of glue
& some duct tape. even the moon
leaks fluid sometimes
& has to be mended. but yes
it is everyone's job
to make planteary fixes
here i am with just my hands
& my skin & the company
of the violin songs 
that make the sun blink open.
the night's carapice
crunches under a foot. 
i shake off the hooves of sleep.
what i want is a 
time machine of leaves
& vines to ask me 
what decade i'd like
to sleep in--i would say 
one without any boys at all. 
i want to see
if my gender holds up to scarcity.
a customer service man
knocks at the door
& i pretend to not be home.
i don't want to complain to him.
he works so so hard.
plus his uniform is sexy. he looks like
someone's dad.
what do you do
when you have so much to be happy for
but cannot find
a single grain 
to save yourself?
i tell my friends i'm doing
pretty good pretty 
good & what i mean is 
i am still alive in some corner
of my soup bowl. 
a spoonful of daylight
is enough for me.
leave a message
after the bird throats
& i will open the door one day
& we will talk in poems &
i will not make you sad
at all. 

salt

i throw salt over my shoulder
wherever i go. 
handful. coarse granules
in my palm. pockets full
of salt. this was the salt
you gave me. salt born 
from a body. we jogged in place. 
shook like stray branches.
i feel all the salt flecks
glimmering across my skin
like constellations. don't you want
to reverse all your luck?
wake up with quarters over you eyes?
don't you want to feel safe
in the heavy leadening forest? 
leaves bolder fall to the brush. 
a metal is taking over
all pulsing. here, look at 
my hand as it trembles.
i am just trying to hold 
a steady bone. 
it is amazing what salt can do 
to a plant's skin.
i watch a tree sweat itself 
to death. what about humans then?
i am seeking my first purification. 
i need a clean that traels
all the way underneath 
my tongue. soon, salt 
will fall from every single 
single opening 
in every single sky 
& we will open out hands
like jars. preservation 
is different than remembering.
we carved our faces
in a bowl of stone.
i miss every single moment we had
before the camera was invented.
sitting for my portrait,
the salt pours out
& buries me & only me