all day strangers try to read my palm

first it is a woman at the grocery check out.
she reaches out for my hand & tells me
she could know my future if i just permit
one touch. i want to let her. i want to 
so badly but i am too terrified. a prediction
can turn months into dominos. i once predicted
a snow storm & tried to pray my powers away
as thick stone-colored snow filled the porch. 
with my groceries in the backseat of my car
all sitting like a family, i inspect 
my palm's creases. pink divuts. a furrow.
a mess of lines. it is a struggle
living always in a present tense. this is why
i prefer writing poems about the past:
there was a little girl & she fell out of a tree.
then come the people on the street, 
stretching out their hands to grasp mine.
they beg for just one caress. i tell them 
this much touching is forbidden. i hold my hand up
as a signal for them to cease but
it just makes them lean in to try & see
the lines. one man points & says:
two children. another perons insist:
no five children. i close my hand
into a fist. a first is equivalent to 
a front door swinging open. i had a nightmare recently 
that the front door of the house would not lock.
every few minutes someone comes
knowing on my door, asking to read 
my palm. i want to take a knife & peel 
the lines away to leave a blank hand
unworthy of divination. the walls of my apartment
even begin to fold & ridge: my palm's pattern
replicating itself. everywhere i touch
i am touching my own hands. my hands are rough.
when did i stop being a gentle person?
my hands smell like sunflower oil &
april rain. it hasn't been april in years.
i unlock the front door & all the people enter.
my house is entirely unprepared
& i am embarassed by its smallness. 
i make them form a line to touch me. yes it is 
what i suspected. they are all angels
come out of curiosity. angels in fact
do have blank hands having never been 
mortal. i ask them why they've come to me
& they simply reply that they will 
come to everyone one day. i have to admit 
i welcome their touch. it isn't often
that a stranger takes your hand in theirs 
& considers its bones. weighs it like
a heart or a stone. i imagine a sky full of stones
instead of clouds & stones underneath my skin
instead of a skeleton. some promise me
i will die young. others swear i will
live old enough to see the star collapse in on itself.
i let the future perch like a coat wrack.
when they leave, i trace all the lines in my hand
with a ball point pen. i pretend they are rivers 
& i am a more signficant kind of land.
outside it finally rains 
like it wanted to all day.

my brother as a vampire hunter

out the front door in the middle of the night.
i stand at my window to watch as he
ambles out of view just over the hill
towards the cornfields. i have never
seen a vampire but i know they are
more afraid of us than we are of them.
he collects flasks of holy water. he practices
making the sign of the cross. daylight is 
a pocketknife in the windows. he prays 
the 'our father' under his breath. 
always tracking the next one. plays his violin
to lure them out of hiding. i don't agree
with any of it. who is to stay 
we will never be vampires? i would keep
to myself. most of them keep to themselves
or so i believe. have you ever met a boy
in the night & thought maybe he might
want to drink your blood? it might just
have something to do with walking 
as a girl. he tells me some vampires 
even lay face down in the woods
hoping the moss will grow over their bodies.
of course i fall in love
with vampires. i conjure a fantasy of one
arriving each night to bring me 
roses. we would not speak, we would just
kiss in the door way. i would 
invite him inside. tell the vampire
my brother is a hunter. we would both
find this sexy. fear is often 
the most erotic possibility. my brother has
never killed one. he sharpens stakes
in the basement using dad's wood saw.
my parents encourage him. they tell him
they're glad he found his calling.
i'm scared of the burning in his eyes 
while he reads the obituraries
hoping to find a new lead. the life of 
a vampire hunter is a hungry one.
i ask him if he still wants to be a priest 
one evening as he gets ready 
to embark. he says that this is
a kind of priesthood. he peels apart
hearts of garlic to fasten necklaces.
he makes me one & hangs it on my door.
i put it around my neck. who knows
where or how he looks for them.
he carries a lantern out in front of him.
the whitish glow blares against
the faces of each farm house 
he stumbles past.

portrait of the night we fell out of love 

we fed the trash can so much it turned animals.
four legs & a pig's tail. scream & left
dirty footprints on the walls. we make a lot of trash
for two people. i open delivery boxes
& flatten it down. i pick up dead birds
off the sidewalk & feed them to the trash can.
feathers are a kind of currency. i will give you
four feathers in exchange for a quiet window.
i wil give you three of my fingers 
in exchange for a good story. there are few
good stories. the sky is ink with muck.
the world is a wad of gum. 
we had no where to take our garbage so we
scattered it across the floor & prayed
the trash can woulod return hungry enough
to leave us clean. the creature was so 
bizarre with its furious movements. 
we laid down in the trash & recalled
the claws & the voice. i openned my mouth
& asked if you could see the trash 
in my throat. you peered inside & saw
a whole realm of cirus tents, each one of them
piled with dead animals & candy wrappers.
music played softly between my teeth.
this is just one of my many 
attractions. you said i was 
a surprising man. i said i try not to be.
we folded the wrappers like t-shirts
& i licked the surfaces while you weren't looking.
a hint of sweet icing. a smear of chocolate.
the world is a series of remnants. 
i told you over & over we just need to be patient
& the trash can will return. it will 
perch where it used to & it will beg us
to fill it again. i didn't really believe this.
i don't believe in returns let alone
ressurections. i filled a bowl with 
banana peels & watched each day as they 
turned into a soupy silk. you were looking
for a new trash can which is to say 
you were looking for a new lover.
sometimes i wondered if you were like me--
always searching for the next person
to love. were you scared you'd become
a particle in my throat? disposal 
is worse than elegy. even when my shoes 
fall to shreds i have a hard time 
sticking them down my throat & saying goodbye. 
you left & the house was still thick 
with all your debris. i never picked it up.
i waited for it to dissolve into the air
like all saddness does. i breathe it in.
it feeds the carnival. there are tents full
of regrets. a smell of tired sugar.
the trash can has not returned
but on some deep nights i hear it weeping
up & down the street.

the morning we woke up without lungs

was long & humid. we did not ask 
where they went though i imagined 
all our lungs becoming the wings 
of a future animal. how can i describe
the absence of an organ? it was like 
cutting off all your hair only worse--
like knowing no hair would ever grow back.
we gasped & looked for objects to replace them.
many people rummaged in draws 
for birthday ballons 
& others found plastic bags to get through 
the day. these would not last & these people
would need to find something else.
a hole in a lung feels like a trap door.
you fall & fall until you fix the tear
or replace the lungs entirely.
a common question on first dates is
"what do you use for lungs?" one girl
i got coffee with used her father's bag pipes.
each breath had music in it. i did not
want to reveal my lungs to her 
which she found odd. it seemed to intimate
in the moment but i regret not showing her.
if i could rewind i would open my mout wide 
& tell her to peer inside to see
my lungs made of mason jars. i always wanted
more significant lungs but i could never
settle on something new. i tried bowls
but they don't hold air. 
i tried a jewerly box but i was always
out of breath. i practice inhaling
on the floor of my bedroom. i remember 
what the membranes felt like when our lungs
were flesh. like doors opening 
& opening over & over. like windows 
with no glass or curtains. we lived 
so carelessly. our lungs are somewhere else.
sometimes i seem them all 
in a great machine of air, then a sun made of lungs. 
i want to hold someone's hand 
& have them know everything about me. 
it is so hard to introduce a body 
you do not know. where does anyone begin? 
i am a man in a fleeting body. my lungs are made
jars that used to store grape jelly.
that is all i know for now. a balloon 
rises above the town & i wonder whose air 
it used to house. 

ladders

from the clouds
the first ladder came down on monday.
it was wooden 
with evenly spaced rungs. 
we came to stare at where
its long length touched the ground 
in the parking lot behind
our apartment. from streets away 
you could see it like
a line pointing into the sky.
the farther away, the thinner 
the ladder looked. i drove
to the grocery store & saw 
the ladder just as a faint thread.
the children took turns
climbing up halfway & i remember
my father setting up a ladder 
in the living room to change light bulbs.
the moment he left 
the wobbly old ladder unattended 
my brother & i climbed all over.
my dream was to stand on top
& feel taller than everyone.
the next day there were more:
three up the street. i took pictures 
with my iPhone just like everyone else.
this is what we do when we are not sure
how to feel about what we're seeing.
now the scientists & the priests came.
they peered up to gleam 
how far up the ladder went.
some started to conject it might
lead to heaven. others suspected
the ladders of temptation. the scientists
assured us the ladder were not real.
they insisted no such device could
stand so tall & upright. hammering 
the rungs they tried to dismantle 
the ladder to no avail. out my window
i watched a boy climb far too high
on one of the ladders. i prayed hard
he would fall. he did not fall 
& i convinced myself my prayers were
effecting change. i prayed all the time.
i prayed to know where the ladders went.
i was drunk with visions 
of climbing them. more came each morning.
when one appeared right outside 
my apartment's door i knew i was being
summoned. to where? i asked myself
what my father would do. his hands 
were thick & callous. sometimes i suspected
he might be made of wood. i didn't 
hold him enough to be sure. i walked
under the ladder collecting years 
of back luck. more came each day.
all down the street & yet somehow
no one had climbed higher
than the tops of the buildings.
airplanes avoided collision. 
satelittes could not see them from space.
some of us begun to worship them,
begging the ladders to carry us all
somewhere new. i imagine heaven as 
at least a new color than here.
i ate ice cream alone & thinking about
the ladders. i knew my father would
never climb into heaven 
even if given the chance. i considered how
in the end it might be just
him & i on earth. i want to tell him
about the ladders but i don't.
i can't think of 
how to explain them to someone 
not here. not witnessing them.
all night i tried to work up
the courage to climb. i told myself
here is your chance. there could be
something beautiful. i couldn't budge.
in the morning the ladders were gone.
we pretended they never occured
maybe out of sadness or maybe 
the rush of the world just reentered
our bodies. i will call my father soon 
& ask him if he's changed 
the lightbulbs lately. 

arboretum of only willow trees

there is a willow tree whose arms 
won't stop growing. a living skirt.
i used to wear skirts that 
dusted the floor. i used to want
a straw broom to sweep with.
i used to scour the dust pile 
for pennies. the willow tree 
is hiding a skull underneath.
a bone glowing in the dark. each tooth:
a black piano key. the willow tree
in on a hill over several horizon lines.
we jumped rope with 
the edges of paintings. there are details
always out of view. i should 
be more specific: if you peel back
the label you will find there is plenty 
of vitamin c in elderberries.
we are doing what we can to survive.
the grass gets taller unevenly 
& tries to swallow my shoes.
i want to live underneath 
the willow tree. i want 
to have bangs again
& let them grow down past my nose.
i want a curtain to encircle me
or a changing room to appear
in the middle of the busy world.
i am imagining the waist bands of skirts
without the skirts. i set out
a bowl of candy to feed the birds
who never got to be children.
i drew the 6 of cups last night
& the tarot deck laughed at me
saying you are a nostaligc skeleton.
this is why i get along with the willow tree.
she cries over memories 
that don't even belong to her.
she invents a mother to hate her.
she wishes she was 
a seed again. i curled up 
in her fountain of arms & pretend
to be a seed. her flowers are in bloom:
white cottom & lip-pink. i fill 
my mouth with the flowers
remembering the first time
i tasted cotton candy & said 
it disappeared! where does it go?
maybe a second life as a flower.
everything is moving in sequences.
when i die i will be without a doubt 
a willow tree & i will still worry
about the extinction of kiwi birds 
& global warming & whether or not
anyone loves me. i will wish 
someone would cut my branches 
& make a broom. my parents kitchen floor
will still be red & mice will still
look for morsels there.
very few things change. have you considered
a willow tree on fire? 

i dress myself in a bacon cheese burger

well done so that
the meat is the color
of rich soil. a sear on
top & bottom. three patties
on a pan simming like lily pads.
put the cheese to my forehead
& wait for it to melt against my skin.
my dad eats a bacon cheese burger
wherever he goes. he's open 
to most interpretations. he told 
a waitor once 
he did not know what to get 
if there was no bacon cheese burger.
sweat & grease are the same.
i made one for my dad once.
all i coukd think was too much.
i make a skirt of iceberg lettice.
when i sit down
the stalks crunch. i am a single tooth.
my dad waits all day to eat.
swallows whole. chews messily.
wipes his mouth with
a paper napkin. even when
i'm not with him i look for
bacon cheese burgers on menus.
i order one & set it out
as if it will summon him. 
sometimes it does. he hugs me tight.
he loves me too much & 
it terrifies me. did he always 
love me this much? why did i
not always think so? 
his throat is sometimes
a long hallway full of guitars.
i put sliced tomatoes on my chest
even though i don't have breasts
anymore. i imagine dad wearing them
on his chest too. this could make
a great photograph in a museum:
father & son or maybe son & father. 
it takes heat to make. some restaurants 
place the bun on the grill as well
to toaste the bread. onions, i could
wear as earrings if need be.
i crouch on a blue tarp & instruct my dad
to dose me in condiments. every kind of touch
is intimate. i misremember 
his fingers often. round & callous
like a mound of potatos. he puts his hands
on my back, arm, leg, ear &
tells me he is hungry. i plant him
in the dirt of a burger 
so that he might swell & take root.
my father is a sesame seed
rocking on the surface of a bun. 
if so, then maybe
i am just a bystander. 
he picks his teeth with 
a blue tassle tooth pick.

my brothers & i eat lemons.

each fruit paired into quarters.
they roll through the front door
as if it's not there. a barrier 
is often just an outline. we take turns 
spitting the slimy slim seeds
into the carpet. my brothers are 
loud & multiplying. i have a brother
for every day of the week. i have 
a brother for each one of my fingers.
they are smaller than you might think.
a few are small than a lemon.
our house is green which was their decision.
i voted for soft peach. we painted
with our hands, slapping paint
until it was done. a brother
is a kind of father. the lemon tree
is the rest of the world. fills the windows
with leaves & winking. the tree flirts with us.
wants to take a lover 
into its branches. wants us to come outside
& see the bloom of 
its small white flowers.
never trust citrus. our mouths pucker
like sinched waists. we wear
over-sized t-shirts. mine has 
an asterisk in the middle. 
t-shirts also often grow on trees.
my brothers press their faces
to the glass windows & make smudges.
i order them to clean their mess. i run
a spotless house. i am not 
a father. i am not a mother. 
there are parents in a portrait 
on an end table somewhere or maybe 
my mother is the lemon tree. the tree that 
swells larger each day. the moon 
is a pale lemon. 
in the morning when we all squeeze lemons
over top of the bathtub 
till our hands sting with the juice.
take turns bathing 
in the sharp liquid. feel electrical
like a wire made of teeth.
i power a light bulb by
placing it in my mouth. my brothers splash 
& play. the rubber ducks melt.
we eat more quarter-lemons.
our tongues dissolve into bones.
mouths full of bone. organs turned 
to marbles. fragile as we are
we insist on play fighting 
in the living room. if we did have 
a mother she would stop us.
we smash tables & chairs. lemon juice pours
out our wounds. i taste myself
from a gash on my forearm. 
there are more brothers now
& even more brothers to come.
silently, i wonder if the house 
will hold them. they put each other
in head locks. they take lemon breaks.
the tree hums & rolls more fruit towards us
in through the chimney & the passage ways.

several chairs in the statue garden at the brookly museum 

my family sitting in all different directions.
brothers are like compass needles
or maybe just like regular needles.
i love them. i miss them even when
they are right in front of me. 
we are testing out the chairs. 
it is hot july & the sky is full
of finger prints. they are visiting.
they drove across states to see me:
all of them sitting in a whirling metal box. 
i have two chairs 
waiting in my bare apartment. 
they are plastic & in need of revision.
i often sit on the floor instead & pretend 
i am perched elsewhere. every apartment
has felt like my first. i keep wondering
when i will feel like i live somewhere
separate from them. i picture 
the chairs in their house: 
the red twisty living room ones
& the four stools at breakfast counter. how could anyone
sense a new chair? 
the birds in the garden sit to look at us.
one chair is round & low. another chair
is woven almost like a basket. the basket
makes me feel like a bushel of peaches. my mother sits back 
on a reclining square chair.
the statues in the garden stand up tall.
they can't sit like we can. they glare
with jealousy. my father does not sit;
he paces which is typical for him. he inspects
the chairs passing judgements on them from above.
this one is too round this one is too squat
this one would never work.
each of us are a kind of chair.
i have sat on both my mother & my father's laps
& my brothers have sat on mine.
we could all be standing on a huge chair
at any given moment. i picture
rows of folding chairs covering a field
then in lines up & down the streets.
so many chairs to collapse. my family sits
scattered. we don't talk about anything
but chairs. i like this one. not this one. 
a breeze cuts through 
our sweat. an ice cream truck sings far away
of its own sweet cold chair. 
our feet are thankful for the chairs.
soon we will go back to my apartment 
& sit on the floor together.
i will apologize over & over
for my lack of chairs. they will say
it's alright don't worry don't worry.
without chairs we looked like we were hiding.
a circle on the hard wood floor. 
they leave soon after. i lay down
& stair up at the ceiling,
imagining rows of chairs there too.

without you i resort to strange acts of introversion 

i started renting out
all the small spaces in our apartment. 
you were away for the weekend
at your dad's big house in the woods.
there were so many gaps in myself.
i always think i need more company
than i do. the word "introvert"
means to turn within, 
to bend inward. i bend 
like curling vines. i climb
the walls with my barefeet.
i use Air BNB. i say this is
a lovely place to vacation. 
the space beneath my pillow.
the jar of tacs. the crook of my elbow.
the bell of a daffodil. the slit
beneath the fridge. i could fit
in any of these. i charge no rent.
i tell them to bring their laughter
in jars. these people were the size
of my thumb. i asked them to teach me
how to be so small. their voices 
sounded like needles dancing with each other.
i pretended to understand what they said.
i didn't want to be a rude host.
host & ghost sound close together.
i kept wandering what you would think 
of the scene if you came home early:
me croaching on the floor as i served
pen caps of tea to these guests
before they made their ways to all their 
creases & nooks for the night.
all their dreaming kept me awake.
i saw tiny movies of their minds
project on the ceiling from their eyes.
these were different humans.
i wanted to tell you about all of this
but i didn't want you to think
i was careless, filling out house
with strangers. did you know 
some Air BNB hosts keep hidden cameras.
i am not that kind of host
though i can understand the urge
to peel open a private life.
sometimes i look for cameras
& i believe our landlord is watching us
on her living room TV. she likes you best.
when you come home she will 
see you arriving before i do.
all the guests have left
& here i am. i touch the places
they slept to remember their warmth.
i remind myseld our landlord 
might just be lonely-- might enjoy 
our sofa kisses & lamplight sadnesses.
she might wish we argued 
more dramatically. will you forgive me
for all the guests? they were beautiful.
i trusted them. you would
have liked them. the house is
bending inward
like a vine.