arrivals 

& just like that my hair is blue again;
electric & unmistakable. there is a fire 
on the ceiling. 
i live in a room of ice quickly melting.
the water is sweet over me. for the first time
in months i want it to snow. i want it to snow
so loud & so bright that everything tastes
like powdered sugar. i want a baptism of snow.
everyone will walk outside & dip their babies 
in snow--roll them into snowballs. 
my friends are all somewhere else 
& i'm showing them pictures of me in high school. 
they are telling me
i was so beautiful. i love the pictures of myself
as a girl. maybe i'm convinced 
she's still alive somewhere 
setting sticky notes on fire 
& soaking herself
in bleach. she dreams of warm snow.
i open a window to spit smoke out of my mouth.
the fire was started by remembering 
too viscerally. stick to images. slideshow.
take pictuers in your skull. 
maybe it's all aesthetics. she is pretty.
she has a round moon-like face. a place
to land a rocket or a match. 
a glow of fear & disappearances. 
she eats raspberry frozen yogurt 
from a measuring cup. 
then there's the problem
of what to do with the blue hair.
i could dye it red? i could 
dye it black. i could pray the brown
comes arrives again & that i return softly to my life. 
a lake forms on my head & people come to visit.
wade into the water. yes, those are my friends
in their bathing suites. i am a state park.
a frozen waterfall sharpens down my spine.
daggers of fallings. there is a roof to ignore.
the water catches fire impossibly. 
now my hair is a sky. 
i'm walking around with a whole sky in my hair. 
the migration of birds. fear of hurricanes. 
i crawl up into the real sky & ask it to take all my blue.
all my friends are gathered down on the sidewalk 
waiting for me to come back. 
sometimes i feel like 
i'm in a constant state of returning. 
was there a beginning? somewhere to return from?
yes, i was born with blue hair 
full of fish hooks. 
i tell myself if i could just 
if i could just. if i could what?
i'm not sure. i don't know what i want 
from my body anymore & that's wonderful & wrong.
i tell everyone she was nothing like me
which is to say she was me. her skin 
& her ceilings. her eyeliner running--
forming a black stream down the hallway.
she set the fire up there & she cries
before i help her back into my mouth.

gravitron 

held still against purple padded wall. 
a great whirling. blinking carnival light:
dull yellow & orange. trying to lift our arms.
heavy as a winter. heavy as an undiscovered planet.
space traveling in our shoulders--
pressing us tight. gravity was palpable then.
gravity liquid & feathered & bright.
my brother & i went on the ride again & again.
from a distance it resembled 
an alien ship docking at our local fair.
an experiment in movement. we were going to 
let the machine take us away.
fly over corn fields & then out 
into the murky dark where the stars buzzed 
like fat bright flies. as the ride started up 
we struck poses. i could look across
& see one boy with his arms behind his head,
relaxing as if this were a sleep machine. 
another girl tried to make herself small--
tried to tuck her knees into her chest
but the gravity pulled them down.
i spread myself out wide. a specimen.
a frog pinned down to a tray. i felt
the weight of each limb. i felt 
a wide sturdy hand pressing down on 
my torso. after the ride i would walk 
sideways & sit in the cool grass to recover.
the other riders did the same. 
my brother held his head in his hands
& shut his eyes.
was the ride a moment of escape
or change? maybe also a reminder of the body 
& all the joints & all the muscle.
when i was young i could sometimes
forget i had a body at all. i could
run & sweat & bleed & breathe 
all without noticing it.
what brought my bones into focus?
my fingernails? my teeth? 
the gravitron was just the start 
of many years of clasping. 
i pose against the walls of my room
but nothing holds me there.

in two days it will be 2020

everyone is talking about 
what they did this decade. my friends make lists 
on facebook. some of them wrote books.
some of them traveled to california. 
ate snails. became uncles. 
some of them survived. 
survive means simply 
to contintue to exist. 
i want to write a list 
where i just write
i survived i survived i survived 
over & over. on sundays while everyone else is at church
mom watches the news.
i sit & watch with her. we're silent.
she's knitting my youngest brother a new glove.
she finished the first one of the pair
the day before & it was too small.
he'll grow out of it soon
she lamented. green and blue thread.
on the news they compose panels to tell us 
all the different angles of terrible things.
the tv is on fire & the my mother's needles
click quietly together. we're sitting 
in the living room of a farm house built
almost a hundred years ago in a small town
where everyone my age dies of drug overdoses
& everyone says that's
such a shame such a shame.
this decade i moved away. i became 
pollen. i watched myself disperse 
again & again. i filled my mouth
with whatever dirt would call me home.
the tv is talking about violence.
a senator says violence, 
it's awful wherever it is 
whether is same race or same gender 
& what he means is 
i am on a tv show 
& you want a simple answer
or maybe it is just easier for him to imagine
violence as this kind of shifting energy. 
no true source.
he ends by saying that when he dies
he's going to ask god in heaven why he lets
so many people die.
an angel of death. i know i think of it that way too.
i make a list of people in i know 
who died this decade. i make a list 
of shadows i made. 
i make a list of days that closed in on me.
a list of kinds of mushrooms. a list of
mouths i entered & exited. a list of 
windows that belonged to only me. 
we sit in the quiet living room. 
i tell mom i'm scared of everything.
& she asks
of what?

invented water 

on our high school senior class trip 
we took buses to baltimore harbor. 
we scurried around each other 
like beetles. our shiny faces
in the gleam of the sun. everything melted
& flowed into the bay. no swimming.
we all sent pieces of our thoughts a float
& watched them hum beside boats.
i told my brother yesterday that right now
all we have are memories of memories.
i tend to invent poetry instead of truth.
i have a memory of all my friends & i 
staring into greenish-blue water of the bay
our faces rippling. the call of a gull.
staying in a place for a whole day 
can give the illusion of home. 
i don't know if we actually peered into the water
or if it's something i use to make sense 
of our wavering bodies. my long blue skirt.
there was a store full of candy at the harbor
& we couldn't buy any because it was too expensive
so we just looked. everything round & pink
& bright. candy is eternal & forgiving.
we went to a science museum & spent a long time 
with the motion devices. they demonstrated newton's laws 
(none of which i remember). a lever & a pulley 
& a track of wooden race cars. a wind tunnel.
we learned a lot about how each other's hands moved.
one girl's wrinkled knuckles & another's wide thumbs.
it is so hard to teach the body departure.
i told my friends i was having so much fun.
maybe i was. maybe i didn't tell them that. 
i hold onto the details. the last event
was a cruise out into the bay. we stood on the deck
of a strange ship & took pictures because 
what else could we have done? i kissed 
my friends on their cheeks. i was in love with everyone
& thankful that it was going to be brief. 
the little ship would dock & together we would all
scatter towards a bus. we would make 
impossible promises to visit each other--
to never grow apart. who did i promise that to?
who promised that to me? i can't remember anymore.
i invent lights on the ship's deck
to light our faces as the sun goes down.
i invent a neutral rhythym because
i don't know what song might have played
on the ship's speakers. we held hands 
& joked that we could all jump into the bay 
with its watering turning black in the dark.
we laughed nervously because we knew 
it was possible the way our energies were
shimmering. the way our fears were sold 
& heavy. i slept on the busy home & 
i missed them all deeply & harshly as if
i were already thirty years older.

glass tables

when mom was little she broke a glass table.
i imagine it collapsing inward--
impossibly shattered right down the middle. 
when i was little i had nightmares about glass tables. 
i was always protecting them. 
their glass was always thin & easily shattered. 
my brothers & i break dozens 
of drinking glasses in the kitchen.
we tweezer slivers of glass out of our bare feet.
somewhere a table is waiting. guilt travels
through the blood. we don't tell each other
that sometimes our furnature turns to glass.
our beds gone clear & flat. the coolness 
of glass against skin. angles peer in
at our terrariums & try to feed us crickets.
angels are terrifying & they buzz all over our house--
they have mor eyes than they know what to do with
this is all i'd like to say about them.
mom says it was her fault-- running around the house.
a wreckless force. children run in my parent's house
at night to make up for that space i left.
childhood is all about what you break & where.
i never broke a single physical bone
but i severed thousands. i signed the casts
of classmates & wrote on my arms in sharpie.
a glass table hovers in the upstairs hallway.
it moans that it wants to die in my dad's voice.
i count the number of time he says i wish i were dead
each time i visit. this time it's seven & i haven't even
left yet. is a world where nothing
is see-through? are there childhoods made 
of cinderblock? mom's loud feet across the carpet.
she's ten years old & she's already learned
how to stand on the ceiling. i try to help her down.
i don't want anything to break. she turns to glass
& fragments--glittering in the air. glass falls
like snow. i can feel the shards swarm my lungs.
what will i confess to my children? by children
i mean drawer of spoons. was this the only thing
she ever broke? what did her mother say? 
her mother, my grandmother, looms above this all
with her fingers knotted & full of indestructable wood.
i am a glass girl in a hallway & so is my brother.
the glass in my lungs turns to fireflies
& they are mine & no one else will get to see them.
i am careful as i use my parent's dishes. i will not
bust anymore than i already have. i always feel like
we all broke something more-- something great that 
none of us can remember. something like original sin--
deep & unerasable. our children stand on the ceiling
threatening to drop drinking glasses
to the floor. i learn to sleep on glass--to walk on it--
to breathe it.

famine 

dad used to collect carved wooden fish:
bass, sun fish, yellow tails, clown fish--all kinds.
each year everyone in my family gets hungrier.
i can see it in the way we move our hands
around the house. the quick way we flick light
on & off. we used to be satisfied be small mouthfuls--
by spoons full of powdered milk & saltines. 
he'd buy the wooden fish from an artist 
down at the flea market. the man had a trailer 
filled with all kinds of wooden animals. 
some painted. some blank. an ark. i wanted
to be one of his otters standing tall & alert.
he'd come home with the fish stacked under 
his arms. a fisherman. biblically proud
as he drilled holes in the wall 
of the yellow upstairs hallway to hang 
each fish. he taught them how to swim 
by example. he laid on his back & invented water.
i watch my brother put tea bags into his mouth
& eat the sacks hole--the leaves stuck 
between his teeth. i eat every shirt-button 
i can find. these are desperate vistations.
mom, filling a bowl with yarn to devour it
like spaghetti. twirls a fork. she says she likes 
the texture. dad hates everyone's cravings & 
tells us to stay away from his fish. 
we hear them trying to swim--
their clunky wooden bodies wriggling
against the wall. he begs them to stay.
hunger is a form of fear. everyone in my family
is afraid of something different. i can't speak
for them but i am scared the fish were 
always waiting to leave us. i'm scared
that each time dad bought a new one that he was
trying to reach something his mouth
wouldn't give him. i earn his trust by
telling him how tired i am of the rest
of the family so he lets me go visit our fish.
i think again of living a life as 
a wooden animal. i might already be
a wooden animal-- i just need someone
to paint me beautiful. everything is ending
very specifically without a drop of water
or a tooth's worth of food. the flesh of fish
is often flaky & white. i pull a fish 
down from the wall. i sink in my teeth.
the wood is hard & varnished. the fish 
feels finally useful. i am so ashamed.
hunger is a dismantling agent. i eat more 
wooden fish & each is ripe & writhing.
trust is an important thing to throw away.
all my family enter the hall. the hall gets
longer & longer. we've seen this trick before.
we almost eat each other but we find
the right fish to satify us at least
for today. i tell my family it's not that
i don't love them-- it's that 
being in this house brings this voraciousness 
out of me. i cannot be stopped.
a constant state of needing 
the next mouthful. my father weeps in
the empty hallway. i saved a fish for him.
i teach him how to eat. it is important 
to always eat especailly when coming apart.
the tongue with be a boat to lift you home
back into yourself. we disperse to our
separate rooms where we curl up
& think of the fish.

we fed goldfish to the turtle 

but not before i held 
the clear plastic bag on my lap 
all the way home from the pet store. 
felt their thrumming through the barrier--
their stirring bodies. inside they peered
all around. they saw the world flickering
out the jeep's window. their gaping eyes 
& blinking mouths took every detail in.
did the goldfish dream of climbing trees?
did they dream of grass brushing up against
their shiny scales? goldfish wriggling
in the dirt. goldfish laughing their bodies
full of deadly air. what is a mouth for
if not to be dangerous? 
as i held the bag steady
i tried not to think about their fate.
i wanted to join the goldfish-- 
wanted to live in water & travel the world
like this-- a blockage between me & 
touching air. everything held still.
dad asked if i was being careful &
i said of course i was. i swam with them.
collectively we invented a world full of water.
goldfish gliding as birds. birds learning gills 
right behind their beaks. the sun simmering 
in the water. a universe above made of steam.
our turtle dwelled in a kiddie pool out back.
he made circles all day trying to climb out.
sometimes he sat on the rock we left for him
to dry out his shell. we poured the goldfish
into the pool & watched the turtle hunt them
one by one. his beak winding up to clip them
in half. stray scales glimmering at the bottom.
the pool was printed with smiling sea life.
a few goldfish remained & i wanted 
to save them. put them in a plastic bag
& carry them everywhere i went. we are all
eating someone. my mouth becomes a turtle's beak.
i devour the ghosts of the goldfish. they peer out
of my eyes like windows. my dad is proud of me. 
hunger is a beautiful quality
in a child. it shows strength. the carnivors 
are the saddest animals. the loneliest too.
us & the turtle-- our bodies full of bodies
full of bodies. the fish without any guilty--
their dying pleated & swaying.

small town glitches 

the tooth picks at the diner were mint flavored.
i slide a whole one in my mouth after 
dad & i eat more than we should be able to. 
cheese melted across our faces like veils &
butter trembled underneath our skin--
a swarm of rats. out the window of the diner
workers take apart the airplane hanger board by board.
airplanes circle overhead like vulutres.
i touch the sharp tips of the toothpick 
with my tongue & consider how much pressure
it might require to pierce the skin.
there is something wrong with our town
but niether of us say anything. the point
of coming home is to return exactly the same
as you always were & the landscape will do try 
to be the same as well. we eat every meal 
at the diner & it's a kind of wedding rehearsal.
dad crawls under the car & refuses to drive
so i drive us down main street where the street lamps
warp like ribs. we are in the beast of it now.
never grow up in a small town. 
it will swallow you back up & you will both be
mangled. it knows everything
you're ashamed of. the grass blinks like eyelashes.
the sidewalk is afraid of my gender so i stuff it
deep into my pockets. people mistake my dad 
for my uncle & me for my dad for my uncle.
we are all essentially the same person,
at least here. i keep the toothpick under my tongue
but the mint wears off. the tootpick turns 
into a dagger. soon it will be sunset 
& everyone will gather at the park & pretend
we are madly in love with our smallness.
i tell dad i can't go. i want to be alone
with our yard. i want to marvel at the grass
we own. he agrees & out there i lay out until
i am flat as a bedsheet. i crave the diner
i take the toothpick out. it's sharpenned 
in my mouth. i need to eat it so i start chewing.
the wood mashe between my teeth. splinters 
in my gums. the faint taste of mint returns 
all cool & stingy. i gulp down the shards
& feel them descend & scartch their names 
inside me. all i wanted was to watch the planes 
take off one last time. i tell my dad that
uber now has helicopters. one could steal me--
pluck me from the soil & call me son. 
everyone is busy with their own indpendent nostalgias.
i take a walk & all over the town is whimpering
& covering her eyes. i ask her over & over what's wrong
but she won't talk to me. i'm just a blood vessel
inside a great comet. no one hears the sun pop
& its last helium ghost into the scene.
everyone's beds hover about a half inch above the ground.
dad wakes me up early & says we have to 
go back to the diner to eat. i explain 
about eating the toothpick. i tell him
he should try & he tunes in to another radio chanel. 
his eyes full of circling planes.

bright armageddon

the bees are dying & becoming
celestial. i watched a migration last night.
several hundred bees all funneling into 
a star. everything dead is bright. 
my aunt joan died & became a bee. she made hive
after hive. she was a woker-- knitting combs 
& remembering nothing of her house on regimental road.
she lost all sense of womanhood there. she only knew
her limbs & what had to be finished. there is 
so much unfinished. the bees, for instance
they were supposed to pollunate the peach tree
growing in between my thighs. i held still for them
all my life & now they're dying. 
it is selfish i think. the night sky is selfish 
with its light & its secrets. the planets--
like the unpetaled faces of flowers. 
what is she doing now? does she remember
eating pretzels on the couch? we wiped 
the crumbs off her chest. the bees laugh 
as they leave clues for us. a single bee 
enters my room & exist each dusk. no sign
of the swarm. i tell the bee to take me
with her & she slips out. escapes me.
if we don't save them we won't have
any food. they are inventing robots
to pollunate fields. this is the first lesson
in death-- replace what you loved with something
immortal. when my family turned into bees
i just learned how to fit inside different measuring cups.
each cup is for a different family member.
1 cup is my family and a 1/3 cup is my mom 
& a 1/2 cup is for both my brothers.
death drives my brother to buy rosaries.
he nails them to walls of his mouth. 
everyone has their own way of grappling 
with the truth about the bees. 
aunt joan became one to fill that empitness.
it is over. something very huge is over.
there are violins playing for the earth.
the heat is melting the last fruit into syrup.
this is why i watch them. i have to see them go
to believe the bees were ever here.
i name the stars after days of the week
until everything is a calendar.
i tell my aunt she was brilliant &
beautiful. she opens her mouth & out fly 
a few more bees. my tongue is a peach
i swallow.

last stop

all summer i told myself i would ride the train
to its last stop all the way at the other end
of long island. a precipice-- trains leaping
into the ocean. each engine, disposable. 
i never did but each time i missed my stop 
i played pretend that i was going far away--
that this one train might be able to glide 
underwater. sharks making faces at us 
through the windows. some people have no problems 
taking up space on the train. they stretch out their legs
underneath the seat in front of them. i keep myself compact.
i press my face to cool window. my life is comprised 
of possibilities i never take. i dream them into dust.
my fingers were full of holes & everyone i met
somersaulted through them as i waved & waved & waved.
what will you do when summer is over & all you remember
is the landscape unspooling from the train window?
i spent a week just standing on the platform 
& never boarding. watching how other people entered.
i left hand prints on glass. a ghost's graffiti. 
everyday i ate protein bars from my blue seat 
piece by piece as if i were consuming something precious. 
everything is precious when put into motion.
the final stop on the train exists only
in my body. a knot of muscle & truth.
i hold tight to it. i tell it to wait for me
& one day i will get the courage to arrive.
i will wear an invisible veil. the train's skull
will open. roof down. wind in our toes.
the ocean to welcome us under like a great curtain.
a great windshield. metal to water. salt to metal.
the last stop trembling in the unknown.
next june i want to be somewhere so green
no one will recognize me. i want a water slide
to grow from my chest & sweet gulls to slip down it.
i want to know no one i know now. i want their love
as they search for the memory of body.
they will find my hand prints. my crumbs.
they will ride the train into the water too.