where un-nameable weeds grow

i cross to the other side 
of the street 
to avoid passing someone. 
i go all the way up
Willis Avenue like this. 
back & forth.
a boy on a bike. a man carrying groceries
in both hands. 
a woman pushing a shopping cart
full of trinkets. 
i don't know what
i'm afraid of or if i'm afraid of anything.
i don't want to make 
bad conversation. girl who looks to small
to be walking alone
i don't want to know 
whether or not we're all
ghosts on one of the first cool night of September.
as long as none of us speak a word 
this might be a haunting. 
this might be
a house of asphalt & street lights. 
our shadows
might be beautiful slanted animals. 
i step over
an empty box of Newports & consider
the cardboard mouth 
& how it opens for me,
a whole human, to crawl inside. 
i'm always searching for a smaller space 
to fit--there's the alley between 
the deli & the day care
where twisted un-nameable weeds grow 
& then the spot between 
the metal fence & the sushi place.
i scope out these locations 
& decide that if i had no where else to go 
i would slip into them
but yes i do have a home & none of us are ghosts,
at least not yet. that comes with winter
& the days shrinking to the size 
of a thread.
we can all feel them dwindling. 
i tell everyone
that i don't miss summer 
so much as i miss
that kind of sweat & those kinds of nights.
that's a lie though. 
the truth is 
all i do is dream about summer. 
that thickness. that heat.
the kind of body it promises. 
the beach aching
to be full of aimless people who look into it 
like a breaking window. 
i could circle the world
to chase summer. yes that's what i'll do.
i consider this gesture almost the same as
crossing the street as another person approaches.
what kind of avoidance? 
that's where i'm left unsure.

slicing the lemon 

the waiter comes to refill our glasses,
his pitcher clinking with ice & metal.
we order nothing but wait for the planes
to land in the middle of the street.
we watch out the window & drink water
with lemons hanging on the lips of each glass.
we talk about diners & how the menu has
everything you could ever want & the waiter
comes back again & again & again
pitcher after pitcher. he doesn't ask questions
just examines us unsure if we're actually humans.
i want to tell him that we're not--
that we're ghosts of ideas we once had.
that we walked all the way here as invisible 
as windows-- the water like swallowing ourselves.
it rained earlier that day & neither of us noticed.
we were inside & fixated on furniture & walls.
i walked on the ceiling & you told me i should
get down soon because i promised we would
do something romantic for once. i took too long
to respond. i had sent my head to several planets--
each of them without water. i was parched.
i needed so much water. we were two lakes
that no god ever bothered to fill in. on the way there
i picked up old losing lottery tickets & told you
they were art. you said they were sad. they were
limp & wet from the rain we didn't see.
i asked how we can be sure it rained since 
we didn't actually see it rain & we agree 
there's no way to be sure-- that it is quite
possible that the entire earth flooded 
between the time we last crawled into our house
& this afternoon. we both see how long
we can hold our breath. at the diner i dare
myself to climb into the glass of water 
& hold my breath there. the waiter fills it up
& walks away & truth is that he is 
a ghost too & that all waiters are reborn into
more waiters slicing lemons into sixths.
i put the lemon in my mouth as if 
i'm smiling. you tell me to be careful
because the water is cold. i want to be preserved
in ice like arctic mammals. i pull you in too
by your tongue. i tell you happy anniversary 
& i can't remember what that means so i sing
underwater like a whale. you cry & your tears
come out as ice cubes. you tell me to drink 
so i drink & the waiter comes back around
to fill up the glass. ice laughing over our foreheads.
outside it might decide to rain again
or maybe the sun will squeeze itself like a lemon
& hang over the edge of the world. maybe we will
taste sour on everything & chew ice for relief.
i pressed my face to you, you beautiful window
& you said you were hungry.

you can't sit here 

the chairs say do not sit here
& so i keep moving down a hallway of chairs.
there has got be one at least that lets me.

what photographs do you make up for yourself?
i pretend we have an picture of me
sleeping inside the spearmint bush.

i talk to chairs. i tell them
i'm a mostly sad person. someone should have
at least put them in some kind of order 

instead of just leaving them strewn about.
someone could trip. i could trip. 
there should be an image of 

my brother & i standing waist-deep 
in the snow after that one storm when
furniture fell from the sky &

broke on the ground: a sofa, a dining table
& so many sets of chairs. him & i 
playing with scrap pieces to write our names

in the layer of white. do you ever
forget your name? the chairs insist that 
it's not a good time-- that they don't want

visitors. i explain to the chairs that this
is my house as far as i know. they chatter.
my chairs have knees that buckle.

i want to go back & hire a photographer
to stand in the corner of the living room 
& ask us to hold still. i tell a chair

that i'm going to sit anyway & it shrieks
so i say okay okay i understand
even though i don't understand. 

there are a lot of moments i've forgotten.
my brother filled a car with broken chair pieces
& drove off someone. my house where i grew up

is now full of clutter & i don't know
how it got like this. i want to move somewhere
the ocean is within sight but then again

the ocean is closer each day. sometimes it
whispers through the windows & floods
the kitchen & the halls. all the chairs drowning

& begging me never to touch them. if i were a chair
i would hold a human up. i think of those afternoons
where my dad would ask me to be 

an ottoman. put his feet up on my back. 
i wish there was a photograph-- i can feel it
in my fingers. i loved it. i loved it. 

the weight of his limbs on my spine.
the knowledge that my frame could be useful.
a wonderful piece of furniture. a camera

only in the back of my throat
snapping photographs & letting me swallow them
as they printed. the chairs kneel for sleep.

the night comes without warning & so 
i lay down with them. i pray for a body of
wood. i pray the ocean doesn't leak. 

the gossip of grass 

i would bury dad's microphones 
when he was at work. holding them up
by the chords like captured fish,
they'd wriggle as i descended the stairs
from the attic. up there we had all dad's
music equipment: the drums, the speakers,
all kinds of amps & sound machines
& yes the microphones. i want to listen 
to the words of plants. on myth busters 
the night before they had tried to make
a fern talk. dad thought this was ridiculous
but i watched intently wondering 
if it might say something hushed
on the audio recording. i thought
about all the plants that i had killed 
on the windowsill of my room & wondered
what they would have to say to me.
all night i stayed up imagining their words
circling me like moths. i had one potted
african violet & i leaned down close,
pressing my ear to face of the flower.
nothing. it didn't trust me. 
i had to hear them. i resolved that
of all plants the grass must be 
the most talkative in these parts 
though in the rain forest it might be
a type of vines of moss. before leaving 
the attic i spoke into the microphone
just to hear the wild strangeness of my own
voice. it's so cruel that 
our voices sound different in our heads.
i tried to speak my voice lower 
& more steady but it just wavered more
in the speakers so i gave up.
i wondered if my voice had plants
inside it. maybe a spider plant
or a succulent. maybe somewhere 
my voice was finding a bowl of dirt
to sleep in. the grass was 
loud. a crowded room. aloud in the yard
with the speaker hooked up 
i listened. voice over voice over voice.
i spoke loud & clear saying 
this is a person but none of them 
stopped their chatter. i leaned in closer
& said i'm sorry for stepping on you
each day & the grass grumbled like a herd
of grandfathers. i stood up. the voices
never became clearer. still a muck 
of sound & i felt more lonely
than ever. all these small mouths 
making slipper language & there i was
a giant. bare foot. dirt under my nails.
i hadn't spoken to anyone all day 
besides the grass who wouldn't talk back.
i pulled the microphone out of the soil 
& brushed off the mesh steal head.
taking the equipment back upstairs 
i wondered if once i stopped listening 
the grass began to talk normally again,
if maybe they were just tricking me.
alone i sat on the floor of the attic,
using the microphone to practice my voice.
my voice loud & crisp & filling 
the skeleton of the house.

watching Rachel get her nose pierced

on the wall of the tattoo shop
i focus on a painting of a pin-up girl.
she's undressing, working her panties down
around her ankles. her head is throw back
in a laugh. i stand a few feet away as the piercer
explains the structures of the nose--
the cartilage at the center & the soft spot
at the front where the piercing goes.
he traces the arch of her nose & comments 
on the asymmetry. i flicker out of the room
& across the walls. i think of my own face
& the metal going through my septum,
my old boyfriend standing a few feet away
asking does it hurt & the brief pain
prickling through my face. later that night
i would keep telling him to stop kissing me
so that i could check the piercing, 
to make sure it was still there, as if
the metal was a handle bar on some sort
of train. as if the piercing was 
in the face of a bull with tags on
her ears. the chair she sits in
is different than mine. she leans her
head back. she looks off into the ceiling.
the piercer is calm. he has long hair
& leathery skin. his voice is steady.
i watch as he moves the needle swiftly.
he uses his own hands. he focuses.
as if skin were clothe. as if skin were 
so easily moved through. he has old tattoos
that are almost indiscernible climbing 
across his fingers & arms. he slides
the surgical steal jewelry in.
i want to be like him when i grow up
i tell Rachel on the way home. i don't 
elaborate. i could just of easily said 
i want a man like him to visit me
every single day & tell me what he's
doing to do to my body. i imagine more
piercings in my face. my tongue. my cheeks.
my eye brows. my old boyfriend telling me
not to get anymore-- that i look so good
without them & how that lit an anger in me.
how i wanted more metal nestled in my skin.
how i wanted to show him how easily 
a needle could re-enter. how i wanted to be
a man in front of him instead of a girl
& how i wanted to wield a sharp object 
so close to his face & tell him when i was ready.
i still want to learn the distinction between
pain & harm. between self destruction &
control. the metal looks good on her & before 
we leave the piercer explains how to take care
of the wounds. he suggests soaking the nose 
in salt water. i think drowning.

this night it's my fault my books turn into birds 

in the middle of the night
i take all the books off their shelves
& they turn back into various birds:
a heron, a crane, 
an owl, and so on.
i am sixteen or fifteen 
or something like that.
i have soft fingers & reptile knuckles.
i am trying to decide if i ever want 
to sleep again. i am writing down the names
of authors so i can ask to switch lives 
with them. i am writing down the names 
of poets so i can pray to them like saints.
last names to create order. dust from 
the bodies of the books on my hands.
birds flapping the dust off their shoulders.
the birds are loud & they call out 
in all directions as if to ask for
a larger shelf or a larger bird
to take care of them. i ask the birds 
to remember what books they were 
to consider their pages. to settle down
so they don't wake up my family. 
i tell them that i would also consider
becoming a bird if they had any tips.
i explain that i would do anything 
other than be what i am now--
a girl awake in an over-sized t-shirt.
the birds circle me overhead.
my ceiling is painted with clouds &
the birds fly above the clouds.
i wonder if they'll come back
or if my shelves will just always be empty.
i recite names to try & calm myself down
emily dickison, virginia wolfe, proust
kurt vonnegut & they all start to 
sound strange as i repeat them--
murky like a spell. i know it is
my fault for scaring my books away
but i wish they would land & let me
alphabetize them. i lay on my back
to look up at the painted clouds.
i try to feel where in my own body
i might be harboring pages. i feel my spine.
am i a bird or a book or a girl 
or a ghost awake all night again?
the birds don't land
they fall
they plummet as books again.
they couldn't sustain that kind
of lightness for long.
the books thwack on the floor
& i know for sure the noise had to have woken 
someone up. i leave the books there
& pull the covers around myself
to pretend to sleep. the books grow
mouse-legs & crawl into bed with me
whining & squealing. 
i tell them that's okay as long
as they quiet down. 
they hush.

terrible tender

tell me how i got here with 
a small hammer looking for pigs.
i left a penny on the street because it was 
tails up. where do you get your money from?
i ask each tree if they have anything to spare
& sometimes one takes mercy on me. i have
organs made of plastic bags. i have 
a backpack full of used lottery tickets
as a reminder about hope. i sat at a bus stop
not waiting for the which is when someone told me
about the pigs & how if you go out just 
before dusk you can sometimes find one
the size of a few humans hobbling
along near the train tracks. i don't want
to kill it i just want to smash it open
to find the dollars & coins inside.
we had blue piggy banks when we were younger
& i sat mine on a shelf in my room.
i was a terrible child. i am a terrible human.
when he wasn't home i shook my brother's bank 
to free quarters & dimes for myself. 
how much of me exists because of money?
i've tried planting dollar bills 
in the dirt. i've tried standing on the sidewalk
& staring at the mansions two towns over
hoping something might rub off on me.
i wouldn't call it greed, it's something deeper,
something more like thirst. i carry the hammer
& i take test swings. i carry a bag of feed 
to toss & hopefully lure a pig near me.
i don't want to hurt them but i have 
to get all the tender our of them. i imagine
bills wrapped around organs & coins
filling each corridor. what did i do
to deserve this? if i were born on top
of a mountain of quarters would i 
know how to hold a hammer like this.
i think of striking the pig
the impact the hammer would have on flesh.
i weep by the railroad tracks as an engine goes by
so that the sound of the machine will eat
my crying. i don't want anyone to hear me.
i have things to be grateful for.
i hear money in pockets three street over
& i don't want to steal it but i want a stronger
to put it in my mouth like a parking meter.
i can't hurt the pig wherever it is
& yes i listen & hear the hooves clicking
on the pavement & the jingling of change.
above the moon surfaces huge & full of silver.
i tell the moon i need money to buy strawberries
& the moon turns over. i toss the hammer by the side
of the road & walk home where there is
empty waiting for me. i wished i would have stole
us something huge & round. i wish i would
have stolen us the moon.

i want to leave you & become a deer, is that so cruel? 

on the night i grew antlers 
there was something missing between us.
there you were standing by the window 
brushing your long invisible hair 
in your wild invisible dress. the window 
made of saran-wrap quivered with 
the deep blue breeze. i walked up back 
& forth down the street in search of 
the jingling sound of a chain link fence.
we had both heard it but i was 
the one to go hunting. earlier i told you
that i felt un-grounded, like gravity
might give up on me soon. i could feel
the grip loosening. the train was made
of ivy & it swung through the station 
with the yells of several wonderful birds.
on each windowsill the town has set out
cups of whipped cream to appease the
coming autumn. i'm tempted to steal on
but before i can i hear that rattling again 
like someone is breaking into 
our chests. it's the nose bones make
when they turn metal. no source though,
none at all & i begin to believe you might
have sent me out to have the house 
all to yourself to grow your hair longer 
& longer until it fills every single room.
i hate when you do that. last time 
i had to be careful even when 
closing doors. the truth is i'm terrified
of what happens to us at night &
i knew i would be growing antlers.
i sit behind our house in the stone yard
where no one ever sits just in case
the source of the rattling was there.
their six black eyes stare up at me, the three
fawn with pinkish noses & thin sapling legs.
i have never seen one in the city before.
i ask why they come & they say because
i should come with them. i explain that 
there are many human tasks i need to complete
before i could entertain the idea of 
being a deer. they laugh & say that 
i'm passing up my one last chance
at happiness. the antlers grew from my head
wild as the tall grasses by the sides of highways.
my head feels so heavy, as if i'm holding up
a whole forests worth of trees. the doe's hooves
clop on the stone & they say i could have hooves too
if i gave in & joined them. they are so soft 
& so free. i consider myself 
with their nimble legs & i think about how
if i were a deer i could run away 
from you so easily. 
how you wouldn't know to miss me. 
how i could visit your back stoop with 
my deep black eyes & wet nose 
just to hum a song that reminds me of you.
i wouldn't blame you if you decided to become
anything but human. 
maybe then it would be easier to know
what to do with our limbs. i want less language
to use on you. i want a less complicated 
vessel. i want fur & four legs & 
a hunger for leaves. 
i take nail clippers to the antlers
& you ask from the other side of the door
if i'm in there & i say yes i am
and i will be out soon, 
i just have to
remove something. 

the child-parents of an avocado tree 

you want the avocados to ripen
so you throw them at the side of the building
like tennis balls, each colliding 
against bricks without making a noise. 
inside each fruit the pits
are actually bouncy balls. we kneel down 
to peel back the skin & soft green
to find what colors we got. yours is blue
mine is yellow swirling. for fun
we squish the avocado guts between
our fingers & pretend these are carcasses.
pretend we're going to eat the heart
of a lion. pretend that hearts are buttery
& easily split in half. we can't remember
where our own hearts came from so we
throw the bouncy balls & follow them
to the very edge of the picture frame
made of wood & nails. we're on the wall
in our parent's house. we're brother & sister,
did i say that? i can't remember which one
i am but we're hunters now so that 
doesn't matter. hunters plucking avocados 
from a tree by the schoolyard where they grow
despite the Pennsylvania weather despite
no one planting them there, despite 
no one knowing what to do with them,
despite each fruit trying to run away,
rolling like footballs towards the creek.
we have nothing better to do for 
the rest of our lives. we have never actually
left this town. a journey means the skin
of fruit & our curiosity. we imagine a microscope
to look at the big colorful seeds.
i wipe the fruit-guts on my shorts
& my brother cries that his hands are dirty.
i explain to him that summer is dirty 
& that he should get used to it. we break
another avocado but this time there is 
a small white egg inside instead of 
a bouncy ball or a pit. we hold it carefully.
we name it. we decide that we're the egg's
adopted parents. we hold it to keep it warm.
we tell the egg that when it grows up
it can be anything it wants. we love the egg
& build it a nest of avocado rinds.
we wash our sticky hands in the creek
where herons the size of people stare at us
bleakly. we nod to them to avoid confrontation. 
the egg stays & egg for the rest
of the summer despite our encouragement
& afternoon after afternoon where we
perched like animals around it,
taking turning standing up to throw 
avocados at the wall. none of them ever
ripened or tasted like anything but clay.

how to never grow up 

in the basement there's a piano made 
of children. each of them recalling 
something bright & loud. they live
in the pedals with their thin feet
& their teeth make up the ivory keys 
that were once on the faces of elephants.
i go down the wooden steps alone
to talk to the piano, to ask the piano 
if it might know what to do with
a human like me. i'm always doing this
asking for advice from inanimate objects.
they talk back more than you might think.
i once wrote love letters to
the lamps in our living room, 
pressing the paper to hot light bulbs 
till one caught fire. how did the piano 
end up here? this has been
a procession of childhood after childhood
wandering down the basement stairs.
we all know that's how you disappear,
you explore a dark basement 
or climb up into an attic.
i wanted to be swallowed up. i wanted
the void & the catastrophe of a lost 
daughter-son. i wanted to hear 
their voices searching for me.
as for the piano, it plays itself.
as for the children inside they 
don't know any music so they just
hit the keys. they just meander
through the body of the instrument
& marvel at each other's bones.
i show them my bones & they plead 
with me to join the piano. i consider 
the mallets inside & the possibility
of being struck over & over. i imagine 
being stretched out on the neck 
of a guitar. fingers plucking me
& making me quiver. i want to quiver
down here in the light 
of a single flickering bulb.
when it goes out we will still
have the instrument of ourselves.
i want to be terrified. i want to run
up the stairs & jiggle the locked door,
crying to be let out but i don't want to
i want to stay & the piano creeps closer 
all slow & measured with the same 
dexterity of a wild cat. all the children 
are mixed together so they can't find
a voice to speak with. the noise of 
banging pots & pans comes from
their mouths. some let out the sound
of sirens & i wonder how anyone 
above me could sleep through all this.
i have been listening to the basement for 
weeks. i have been counting the children
going down there. i counted on my fingers first
& then on my toes & tongue. so many.
were our parents ever pianos 
like this or are we changing
as animals? i ask the piano what i should do
with my hands & the piano asks 
to be touched one more time
before i become part of the body.
i play a not-song i wrote myself
on the plastic keyboard 
i used to play in my bed room.
this is a piano you see. this is different.
the notes were all off. the children
laughed at me. i told them i would 
walk inside like i was supposed so 
i closed my eyes. the flooding sound
of snapping wood. the vibrating
of strings.