we play charades

you are making a chopping-down-a-tree gesture
& across town a tree falls over.
we here it whistle & thud
like a body dropping from a building.
there is an axe hovering in the room.
all games involve some fragment 
of truth. our bodies come into focus.
we are playing because the house
is empty & we need to pass the time
before the moon takes the place
of the sun. i draw the card
"rocking a baby to sleep" &
i make a basinette with my arms.
close my eyes & imagine holding
this creature; soft & fragile.
the baby is rocked in a house
blocks away. he floats
above a blue crib. in ten years or so 
he will remember this & come to
believe in ghosts. how can i prove
i am not already a ghost?
i ask you to kiss me all over
to trace the outline of my figure.
you cast a fishing line, moving you left hand
as if to real the fish in.
i think of the stream i used to live by
& my father making that motion
as he tried again & again
to catch a fish. we never caught one
but on our walks we would see them
mocking us from just below the surface.
it is orange in the clouds. a trout
wriggles on a river bank because
of us. i want to stop the game 
but you say we have to continue.
we have almost unfilled the day 
of our bones. i push an elevator button
& the machine goes up without us.
you pull tape out of the dispenser.
i catch butterflies. you fly a kite.
motion is maybe a written language.
i note your elbows & your knees. i watch
the angles of your hips & shoulders 
to notice when they are parallel.
we stir a pot of clam chowder 
up the street. we shoot a bird dead
& pray it wasn't a dove. i beg you
to stop & you hold your hands up
to the overhead light. they glow a faint red
in the shine of the bulb.
i do the same. it's as if we're
seeing our souls togeteher.
i tell you we have done enough 
& you agree. you plead to do
just one more. the house is dark.
the power goes out or maybe 
we just wanted all shadow. 
it is rare that your wants 
manifest before you. i am scared
of my own gestures. i ask you 
if you think i'm a ghost & you don't 
answer me. the final action:
you skip a stone across the water.
we watch out the window 
as if we might witness the stone
rising & following orders.
we do not. the stone sinks 
quietly into the water.
we go to sleep without touching again.
i want to reach over & brush against
your palm, but i don't.
i picture the tree falling
& the axe still alive somewhere. 

hatching

i take a silent Uber ride
into a blue chlorine lake where 
the water is a sickly blue & 
there are lost men playing golf
on the edge. i once found a fleck of gold
the size of a finger nail & i begged
my dad to sell it but he promised
it wasn't worth anything. 
where is that gold now? i check my teeth 
for diamonds. i check the bottom 
of the lake for girls. this is where
so many dresses go to collect moss.
i lift stones to reveal families 
of whirling bugs drunk on chemicals. 
across the surface
all kinds of spheres are floating:
golf balls & basket balls 
& soccer balls. any circle can hatch
into a creature if you give it enough 
attention. i watch as they open 
to reveal dragonflies as large as 
oven mitts. i wonder how big the animal
inside the moon is & if i alone
could bring it forth into 
the watery night. i count my fingers.
four on each hand. i am dripping blue.
my eyes turn into cue balls.
i am ready to be struck. i need to 
remind myself to tip the Uber--
tip him well. i appreciate a driver
who does not try to pry me open.
i roll down a window. there is 
no car just a headlight's fading stare.
how dare you wonder
where are we? location is 
the most important thing to pin down.
i have tacks in my pocket 
which i press into the grass.
the golf men are glowing. 
if i had any gold-- any gold at all
i would use it to arrive
on my dad's porch. i would bring
a mouth full of lake 
& spit it all out at his feet 
until our yard stung.
a great bowl of pear juice.
i bleed nectar lately. i have 
a small cut on my index finger
i sip quietly from. there was 
a piece of gold once. 
i hold my breath at the bottom 
of the lake hoping to see it grin
like a lost tooth. 

toy stories

the electric dogs bark three times
& stretch their technology
at a mall kiosk. there is so much
that can be bought. the dogs repeat
the same movements over & over.
they bump into each other. 
they shuffle. their wires are fatter 
than veins. their wires
are full of a new kind of blood. 
buzzing with language. 
life begins in a register full of dimes. 
i should buy them all. 
i have too much empathy
for toys or maybe 
everyone else just doesn't have enough. 
i've always paid attention to them. 
as a child i sometimes turned into a doll. i lay still
& waited for someone to love me. 
i pulled the stuffing from the chests of stuffed animals 
to feed myself. wads of sinewy cloud
stuck in my throat. what would you do 
in order to be soft? 
i imagine the dogs loose in the mall. 
how far could they stumble? what might they become?
a flock of pigeons? a swarm of horse flies? 
a pack of real dogs? though, probably not dogs.
our transformations are seldom that clear. 
i myself have gone from girl to doll to boy
to crow to surveillance camera to boy.
batteries are always required.
i tuck them under my tongue. the robotic dogs
are jostling together. a good herd. their voices
make a unison. a tinny barking. 
i tell them they have to try harder
if they want to have bone. if they want
to be bought by passing children. children are
harder to please than it seems. i was never
a pleased child. to love a toy 
is to love a piece
of yourself. here is all my sadness
with two black eyes sewn into her face.
i have to resist sewing my wounds shut.
i am a human & these are not dogs.
these dogs are products designed
only for motion. though, i am also often
designed only for motion.
what if i am one of them? 
i bark with them in the small recorded voice
we all have waiting for us. i move
just like them. we collide bodies.
we dance for passing children
with their mouths full of quarters.

i built a cabin in my mouth
 
& made each tooth a forest.
my throat: a well. 
the roof of my mouth:
a new pinkish sky. 
here is where i want you to vanish to.
you will live alone yes 
& somedays you will wonder 
if there are any animals in the trees
or if you are the only remaining creature.
i want you to be lonely.
i want you to miss me. i am a selfish house. 
what can vanish mean in a world
where every stream flows into grocery store?
aluminum cans sprout from the brush.
the moss on the trees thickens. 
i've always told you
i need to build a cabin in the woods
& escape from everything
but i wouldn't survive you see.
this structure is for you.
when you peer out the windows 
you will see the world as i witnessed it.
the violet hue. the premonitions. the ghosts.
the trembling of every staircase.
you will have a woods to toss yourself to.
i would be terrible at this; 
snapping the arms off trees for fire
& fishing in the empty lake
hoping to catch a father or a fish.
i trust very few symbols
but i do believe that god is a fish.
i have worn a baited hook around my neck
& tried to drown. but here i am alive
& ushering you inside a new home.
the pros are you will know i'm always near.
the cons are i will be so vast
you might never find my lips.
let me tell you though 
when twilight comes you can follow
the pink in the sky. keept reaching
till you brush against something 
soft & damp. this will be the edge.

amphibial love poem 

i have fallen in love with many frogs
by which i mean some nights 
i become amphibian. this is not 
on purpose but rather a result
of all my yearning. my skin breathes
sidewalk & dark. my eyes turn round & glossy
like cue balls. i wet my skin 
in the sink & think of salamanders:
their long bodies
& their fears. they press their skeletons
to the sides of rocks & cars while
frogs are out here in a big city
trying to make something of themselves.
my father was also an amphibian
& he clung to the sides of trees
all my life. i mistake leaves for him.
he has convinced himself he can 
reach the night sky by force of will.
he dries out near in the branches 
& turns back into a man each time.
i am ashamed of him but aren't we all
ashamed of our fathers? enough of that
let me tell you about love.
in my version of the frog prince
two frogs kiss both with the hope
of becoming human. he is 
a red-eye tree frog & i am green & nothing.
a species says it all. a bullfrog
chews on a bird & offers to crush me.
i suck the soul out of a fly.
a human blind folds me & i tell him
my safe word is "frog" he extents 
his throat. he does not listen.
it is march & soon all the stagnant waters 
will be full of frog eggs.
i remember being a tadpol. everyone pointed
& laughed at my half-legs. 
i want to go back to those blissful
first days where i thought i might be
just a fishl. as long as there's land involved
a creature can't really be happy.
i find a sweet toad & ask him
if he knows when the next train is.
he does not so we pass the time
telling stories of our past forms.
he knows he was meant to be an olive tree
& i second guess if i was meant 
to be human or to be a crow.
if i could fly i would scoop my father up
& show him the night sky
is not what he thinks it is. 
a train comes & goes. & another
& another. we part ways 
when i finally board the train.
in the distance i watch him
return to the figure 
of a skinny man with scruffy hair.
he waives & does not see me
as i also transform 
back into a short man
with skin stilling inhaling
damp wriggling night.

a loose portrait of pigs

all pigs are made of straw
or was that horses? i take all
my precious jems & dip them in 
a thick batter to be fried.
we talk about what oil is best
for frying. the pigs have 
blown away entirely. the wind 
is a series of ghost animals
their parts mixed togehter. duck bill
dog leg. fish tail trutle brain.
i believe it's vegetabe oil
& i picture a leek crying its 
loose golden tears into a pan.
there were never any pigs. i want
an onion ring to wear around
my largest finger. the onions
are petaling apart. i have only
two items passed down to me 
from a grandmother. here is a gold necklace
& here is a pair of clip on earrings.
i make them crispy & fresh.
i once had a boyfriend who liked to
fry flowers. brought the sunflower oil
to a sparkling heat before 
dropping them in. i am not thankful enough
to so many people but especially the ones
who collect lard from the bottom of pans.
my mom does this & the fat turns white
in the little mason jar 
on the back of the stove. 
i miss the pigs. i will lure them back
with these fried trinkets.
all pigs are full of diamonds.
i leaned against a wire pig pen 
as the creatures laid against each other.
they slept like great vats of oil.
their tongues were thick as wrists.
what oil did my grandmothers use
on their wedding rings? an onion
is a kind of sharp prayer
turned translucent in heat.
my skin is all onion as are my bones.
i remove the slithering onion
from its batter case.
i hold the onion loop up to the light
& peer right through it
to see all the animals standing steady 
trying to last through 
the next solid gust of wind.

sea glass genesis 

i have been trying to make my own seaglass
like the pieces we found on the shore in maine.
i fill the bath rub with table salt & then water.
i tend to believe anything found
can be made. this is not so much out of arrogance
as it is out of fear. what if the ocean 
flips over? what if the last sliver
of sea glass is harvested? 
i often press seeds into my palms 
& make a fist until a sapling sprouts 
between my knuckles. natures is 
buzzing inside me. i wish we lived
in a time of ship wrecks. i would do well
culling the debris & standing on the rocky shore line
till my eyes blared like a lighthouse--
two white bright holes towards the ocean.
do you remember the sound 
the sea glass made as the pieces 
clinked in our pockets? you wore plaid shorts
& i wore the pink flower dress. 
i am so far from an ocean like that.
sometimes i think i am the only one
who truly wants to run away anymore.
i do not own anything. not a house
or a car or even a microwave 
at least not anymore. i don't know
what i'll do with the glass once it is frosted 
& worn with salt. once the edges 
are no longer sharp & the surface
is the texture of a sugar cube.
i used to make necklaces with the pieces
we plucked together but they are all 
knotted in an unreachable cardboard box. 
i break a bottle in the alley 
& carry the fragments with care 
towards my own little ocean. 
the tub starts to swells with waves.
i can't resist dipping my feet in.
you helped me take off my socks & shoes.
you set them on a huge flat rock
as i walked on top of sea glass.
cool navy water. you took a picture of me
with your iphone. the picture turned to sea glass
a long time ago. you turned to sea glass
a long time ago & now you lie face-up
in the box of necklaces i made.
i invented an attic room just for you.
the sea glass is ready. i cup 
three shards in my hands. all the mirrors 
in the bathroom frost over too
& then my eyes. it's contagious.
i should have been more careful. 
an ocean will invite another ocean.
a frosted surface will always want company.
i imagine your eyes frosting over too
wherever they linger in the water.

everyday portal 

under the bridge i imagine
the pigeons as gateway guardians.
they roost in patches across the ceiling
like a living scab. a feather or two falls.
i want to catch them. who doesn't want
to be covered in feathers?
i want to be a hybrid bird 
of all different plumage shapes & hues. 
flight would not be necessary. 
the pigeons chatter about me & my pink palms. 
they wonder if i could ever 
perch where they do or if in a past life
they walked where i walked.
passing under the structure
i pretend i will be in a completely new life
when i come out on the other side.
i pass across a membrane. this reminds me 
of the vined arches we'd find in the woods
around the creek where i grew up. we called them 
fairy portals & we chased each other
through them. did i undergo some sort 
of change as i crossed thresholds again & again? 
an alternation i never noticed?
i think of our bodies: great streches 
of soft skin. tongue pined behind teeth.
stuffed animal children. i sewed myself up 
each & everyday. pulled clouds from their nests
to fill my body. now i am hoping for 
a drastic shift. i would like to be 
one of the yellow snails who meander all day
across the bridge's path. or, maybe 
i could be a handful of cherry blossom petals
to be scattered. that's too romantic of me
but imagine the petals pink tinged with red.
above, a train streaks across the bridge filling
the world with noise. a hollow hum.
this is how i imagine the inside of bones sounding.
i take this as a sign i should cross. 
lives rocketing above my skeleton.
all their bones moving so rapidly i cannot see them.
we stopped playing in the woods 
though i can't remember when or why
only that i am me now & the woods are far away.
the bridge was not a portal or at least so it seems.
i am not a bird now. the other side 
flickers behind me. 
the sun is tangerining towards twilight. 
or maybe i am a bird & don't notice
or maybe i was always a bird.
we were all birds in the woods.
i can't tell if i miss being young
or miss my body. it is possible
i never had the thing i miss.
there aren't enough ways 
to alter your flesh. there aren't enough 
portals or woods. a pigeon plucks 
a chip bag from the brush 
& carries it away.

sleeping above a fire

last night we found the fireplace
we had always suspected was hidden
in our apartment. the smell of churning fire
crouched just behind our teeth
& then there it was under your bed
with all the stone & the row of pokers.
we could not find where all the smoke was going.
you opened my mouth & i opened yours
to check for clouds. your teeth were
so grey from stress i told you
we should sleep more. 
when i first met you, we slept so much.
our feet were perpendicular objects
& you folded each pillow in half.
the morning is a lot like
a trough of hay. the goats 
crowd the sun. i was born in a town
the size of a dime & it could hold
so many cows. the cows come
to warm themselves by our fireplace.
it is astounding how quickly a memory
can become material. just the other day 
i remembered a lover from before i met you
& then there he was smelling
like a fallen tree. he asked me
to use him for firewood.
he came apart easily, revealing 
his soft wood. an evergreen.
the snap of branches. there is 
enough to last us the last few years
of winters. the winters are flocking
this year, one after the next.
their feathers sometimes fall on the sidewalk
& i collect them. you still don't believe me
that they are great huge swans
but one day we will see them together
& i promise not to rub it in.
i will just say, here they are.
our hands are cooking by the fireplace.
two medallions of meat. i count your fingers
& you count mine. we can't get 
an even number though we are sure
we both have five fingers on each hand.
a finger falls off & turns into 
a knot in a tree. you touch me 
& leave branding marks. call me your
cattle & when i run away these marks
will help you find me. fantasy is morphing
right before our eyes in a world with
such certain cold. will you miss me
when am all kindling? it is a silly question
of course you will but at least
you will be warm. the winters 
are getting into formation.
have you ever tried to burn a feather?
each little tuft twists 
& blackens until only 
the stem remains.

in defense of myself & other liars

at all times i keep a pair of fingers 
crossed behind my back. a kind of precaution.
it's not that i try to lie
sometimes they just spill out of me.
i remember when was little 
i would lie about the school day,
telling mom there was a wondeful huge custome trunk
in the middle of the classroom. i told her
i dug in that trunk & found a dinosaur costume
to wear for the rest of the day.
really, i spent all day watching 
other children's hands. 
they hurled red rubber balls at the maple tree
& unfurled fruit by the foot from their lunches.
hands are so much like little insects. hands are
hard to pin down. i hated my own hands.
it is easy to blame the body 
but you have to believe me when i tell you
my fingers sometimes crossed themselves.
i would transported myself 
to a new body with thinner
& more dexterous hands.
i was a piano player in my heart, a key board 
summed right there from the mulch. 
the other children's voices leaked
through & turned to cardinals 
in my palms. they pecked until
my skin was raw. the thing about crossing fingers 
is once you start, they grow together. 
they whirl & knot like roots. 
there is no going back now.
i invent so much of myself 
in a dimension i show no one.
there, my hands will do 
whatever i want them to.
they know how to tie any knot & play
any insturment. they program computers 
& fix broken teeth. they sign 
legislation to protect me. they unwind 
days that fissured me. 
tuck hair behind ears. 
crease slice of paper. is a hand a hand
if it performs your desires?
is a lie a lie if it unfolds 
in your mouth? if it comes out 
bright pink & soft?