BMI

at the doctor's 
i lie about my weight.
i say i am made of approximately 
83 mourning doves 
or a teaspoon of goldfish or, 
on a good, day, i am one pelican.
BMI stands for body mass index.
an exam table
can be an altar 
if your cloth is wax.
a shuffling of fingers.
at night they way 
planets & tell the moon
she eats too many buckets
of sugar. i use
the smallest spoons i can find 
as reminders of 
the portions of fruit flies.
here is your waist 
& here is your fat around
the waist. i am wasting,
no away, but upward. 
so so tall & thin. so so 
neon drinking. a syringe 
full of flours in my forearm.
a doctor is measuring 
how much my soul weights.
this is all in preparation
for the final scales 
where a phantom dog
will way my heart
& determine 
if the summerland is ready
for another pair of feet.
a white room is always 
a kind of portrait.
notes buzz on a notepad.
what does the doctor
record? does he take 
the notes human & unspool them
for his own pleasure?
yes. several hundred hummingbirds 
could fit inside me.
yes, my bones are dense.
you could call me
a bolder of flesh. roll me
down a carpeted staircase.
teach my your diet physics 
& i will teach you mine.
a body is a dangerously
malleable starting place.
watch, i will show you 
how i move towards 
willow & sapling. doctor
with his teeth made of wood.
he shakes his head.
tells me i am
the heaviest possible object.
six or seven 
dead stars worth.
here i am.

july

trust nothing the forget-me-nots
tell you about mourning.
it was humid & i floated through town
like an orphaned button. i was trying
to overlook my loneliness
by collecting the smoothest stones
i could find. an object
is the only solution to 
the real undoing. i found
whitish stones & grave-stones 
& a church spire piercing cloud.
i plucked a white fringed flower
from a crack in the sidewalk
& cradled the plant home, hoping
to re-plant there. 
weak, the plant fainted 
& would not wake up. this morning
i could not wake up so i slept
another whole day & 
no one noticed. the forget-me-nots 
only bloom between a tangle
of ivys & brush. little blue faces
between knives of green.
i have never plucked one
despite how much i want to.
they are very kind flowers 
& they wave to me each day 
& say, "hello dear robin!"
i waive back & say hello 
but i never know what else to say.
i want to say, "flowers, forgive me
but i am so forsaken i write
the day of the week on a notecard
to remind myself." no, the flowers
don't want to hear something like that
so i write the words on a dinner plate,
cover it with salad & swallow. 
a fork can be used 
as a dowsing rod when i am looking
to feel the water under my feet.
i sat on the porch at night
& i saw not a single firefly.
do they simple not come here?
i have been waiting for 
something beautiful. the flowers
waive again & close their feathered eyes
for the night. my face is blue
with forgetting.

the kutztown park water fountain 

was fed by clouds. 
white, grey, dark
clouds all of them coming to crouch 
in a single pipe. 
their spilling. the clouds above
asking each other "do you fear
becoming water?" 
children in a line
along the cement walkway.
all of us had mouths
with lips & tongues. the sun
drank us. dirt nestled
under our fingernails.
not far away the sandbox
made us architects.
yes, we were expert 
twig harvestors 
& cicada shell collectors. 
put our mouths 
too close to the opening 
where clear water 
breached. cool & round tasting.
our soft elbows. 
green rustling all around &
the whine of a swingset being swung. 
the life of a cloud 
inside our mouths. 
all of us standing above
& looking down on the playground
from our cloud.
a cloud voice telling us children
"be careful or 
you might evaportate 
& only see everything
from above." a bird 
cutting through a cloud.
thunderstorm would come
that night & i, a children,
would walk out & open my mouth
to catch rain drops.
where does 
the waterfountain wait?
the cloud in my veins 
helped me float
up to the top bunk
of my bed. i looked towards
the ceiling. blank.
playground boned. a bruise
on my shoulder. mulch fleck
in hair. the cloud
slowly departing,
leaving out my ears
& my mouth & my nose.
nightlight blinking 
to dark.

today i am 24

& in this life i am the caretaker
of a cementery. the fence is rought iron
& the graves hover just above the earth
like humming birds. my shovel
is as heavy as it needs to be
& i stalk a path, thinking of last year
when i had a different life 
& a cake rose from parking lot dirt
& we ate with our hands. 
frosting under fingernails 
& you playing music from 
your phone speaker. tinny & small 
a mouth perched in our ears.
my bones were less elastic. my jaw
was screwed on right. i woke up
before the sun. my insurance agent
visits me in the graveyard
to wish me a happy birthday 
& to remind me of the statistical chances
of death. i tell him those things
don't happen to me. he hands me a briefcase.
i wait till he leaves to open it
& confetti spews in my face.
next year, i make a promise to myself
to let no one know my birthday.
at the far end of the graveyard
i go to a masoleum to lay down.
my dreams involve: an award ceremony,
a school shooter, & a kiss with 
a high school teacher. none of it asked for.
tomorrow will be just another day
& i will try hard to think less
about my body. a bell is ringing
louder & louder. the acolyte in me
craves a chalice or a golden place
to eat a morning off of. 
where are my friends? i ask 
the graveyard. the tombstones
roll over like puppy dogs.
a ghost brushes past my shoulder
& i whittle the sun
with a butter knife
until it reveals its disguise
& just becomes the moon.

saddle

my leather butterfly hums open.
rochester test on the back
of a man. you stood 
on all fours on the bed 
& told me to make you 
my horse. your eyelashes
like telephone wires. your teeth
square as rubix cubes. 
a bed frame
is a scaffold towards
a slipping height. i dream a bed
as tall as the mountain. 
i dream of riding you there.
the first time i loved a boy
he cut a map into my bones.
he said here is where
i kiss you 
& here is how
you thank me. the maple leaves
turned brown in fear. 
crumpled & turned.
a horse stood on the edge
of the school yard. 
tall as
a god. 
hooves like lodestones
holding him to earth. 
i thanked him
for his vigiliance. 
what will you do
to please a boy? is it different
if he is a man? 
you ask
to be straddled. i tell you
i am a mammal. i am really
a mammal. you admits 
your blood is the color red.
we are tangled between
each others joints. you have
two knees 
& i have two shoulders.
bite collar. clutch hip.
hold on to me you say.

we became bee keepers

helped each other 
into the garments. a net
around the face. 
your face obscured by
net pattern, like static 
or snow. speckled teeth.
warped eyes. yes, i could tell
you were smiling. you asked
where i hid the bees 
& i said i would show you 
if you were patient.
next each of us slipped into
white jumpsuit, fabric swallowing
our bodies. yellow gloves.
we held hands, protected 
from the threat of skin.
i took you out far away
from our lives,
following a trail 
of mist. i told you
to close you eyes.
i said "here are the bees"
& there were
no bees. just the yellow
of the sun 
& the black of our eyelashes
& the yellow of our gloves.
the nests were empty.
but you played along.
you smile warped
through the netting. you pretened
to be covered in bees.
i said "we're going to eat
honey every single night."
the earth was falling away 
in juju bee fragments.
my tongue, soft & fearful.
was your body even there
beneath all the clothe?
soon, we would be
the last bee keepers.
i told you not to cry.
i held my hand up
& said "look here's
a bee."

yellow tire swing

the sturdy orbit 
of a fly around a skull. 
back & forth insect. we were kids 
in the only playground
& you pushed me into the sky
until it snapped like 
glass candy. a grain of sugar,
like a seed freckling 
in the dirt. you on one side
& me on the other. chains 
holding us up. a spider web 
in the cavity of the tire.
an animal waiting 
to leave bite marks 
on our ankles. you were not
my brother, you were 
just a playground child
& we exchanged names & i forgot yours
only a day or two later. you became
a boy on a tire swing & so did i. 
we crouched in the mulch.
fingers made of worms. pendulum 
swinging one of us on either side.
you with your messed curly hair
& me with me hair buzzed short.
the swing wove higher,
went all space ship 
in our urging. we had dads
back in the soil. i wanted
to flying saucer without you
& find myself cloud perching.
a squirrel watched us
from a branch with his 
deep black eyes. the squirrel
went & told his family that humans 
were trying to destroy themselves.
he was only slightly wrong.
all the contraption
& the clink of chain 
as you got off the tire swing.
i asked you to stay. balance
the weight. i wanted to keep 
pulsing. you turned 
& became a red car far away.
i wanted to star-fish lay
but i was too small.
i fell through several 
donuts. mulch clung to my back
& poked into my skin. 
what thresholds do you pass through now?
a yellow tire swing blooms 
in my doorways. a part of me
is still waiting
for you to balance 
a sway. 

tradition

the ghost of my grandmother made a trifle 
& set it on the porch for me yesterday.
by the time i got to it there were
flies in the whipped cream on top 
& worms in the custard. layer after layer.
where did she find this glass vessel?
whose kitchen did she commandeer?
i have to empty the sweetness out 
& so i spill the contents 
in the mealy ground.
stray cats gather, oraphened 
& licking their paws. all cats 
are keepers of family trees. they know
where i came from & who left
the trifle. i ask them
if they have seen my grandmother
& they all look around 
as if they hadn't heard me.
once, my grandmother made
with same trifle for my first communion.
i wore a white dress & i pressed
my hands together in prayer.
you can teach a child to do anything
if you call it holy. i wonder
where my dress is now--
all our little dresses
lining up to place god in our mouths.
when was the last time
a man asked to be put in your mouth
& called it holy? i apologize
i'm getting away from myself
you want to know about the trifle.
it was beautiful & glistened 
with berries & whipped cream.
grandmom stared at it 
like it should never 
be eaten. on our plates
the layers muddled together.
spoonfuls of cream & sugar & 
sharp strawberry syrup & hunks
of shortcake. i know she will
leave me another one tomorrow.
she will keep coming 
until i dip a spoon in the layer
& sit down on the floor to eat with her.
the truth about ghosts is 
they are everywhere but only 
every once in awhile does
a desire spill out of them.
i tell her she needs to leave
the trifle right as i come home
from work & she claps 
in approval. i wash out
the glass container 
& happily, it vanishes.
i put a bare spoon in my mouth 
& listen to the creeking floorboards.
the stray cats lick cream
from the bushes.

when did you know you were becoming a cloud?

tuesday was full of holes.
i woke up dizzy, steading myself
by leaning against
every door frame. 
the water left my body
in a steady column of mist.
a dumbweighter rigged 
up to the sky.
steam from each finge tip.
tendrils. rivers 
run backward. i ached all over.
i had chills & i laid 
on the floor of the living room
trying to think of who 
to call to altert them 
of my changing state.
i felt my voice
dispersing too. each word
becoming a droplet 
of water. oh! all the poems 
i've missed 
in a rain storm.
oh! my teeth scattering 
towards heaven.
i missed the boundaries
of skin & dirt. i missed
the way i used to 
trust a beam 
of sunlight. to this day
we are not sure
what triggers the shift
from body of flesh
to body of mist. in both
i was bored & aloof.
looking down, i rename
all the streets 
in everyone's hometowns.
this one is tree top this one
is swingset & this one
is femur. if someone 
really missed me they would have
sent me a ballon. i wouldn't
have been able 
to read the message
but as the object
passed across my face
i would know it quavered
with human songs. instead,
i brace for airplanes.
cut me through 
with urgency. carry another body
towards a new hunk of earth. 
really, there is 
very little movement. 
clouds do not kiss. we do not
sleep or shake hands.
we do not miss each other. 
next time i rain
i hope it falls all over
the face of a previous lover. i hope
i snap his umbrella
& his clothes stick
to his skin & he looks up
& cannot help 
but think
of us.

a starling life

i have a cardboard box full of 
terrified apostoles. found it
on my door step with my other packages.
lid taped shut. they huddle near 
each other & i put my ear 
to the surface to listen to their secrets.
paul is weeping & john is leading them
in song. they talk about starlings
& how starlings are eaten by 
other birds--plucked from the air.
a hawk & a vulture with their beaks
full of starlings feathers. 
the heart of the starlings
thrums inbetween clouds. i hear it
like a bicycle chain.
out of guilt, the other birds
burry the starling's thin bones
in the backyard. the apostoles
dream of riding birds back up
into heaven & they elegize
the starling. they talk
to the bones until the bones
push up through the dirt.
it's not enough to make 
a walking skeleton
so the scattered bones 
just twitch & hum. i check 
my own bones in the mirror.
thin & possibly capable of flight.
i did not order any apostoles
so i do not open the box 
even though the apostoles
begin to chant 
that they want to see 
daylight glow. i pretend
not to hear them. it is easy
to ignore tiny gods. i want
to live a starling life
without fear of dirt. magick 
in the soles of my feet.
a hovering forming
at the tip of my tongue. 
i return the box of holy men
& stand in the yard afterwards 
working on a bird call.
no sound comes out. i touch
the starling bones
& feel a vibration
traveling into me. the starling
& i promise to never leave
each other. i swaddle the bones
in leaves & return to a good windowsill.
the hawk & the vulture 
were watching.