lace white bra

a sleepy iron garden 
where the birds are sewn into the ground
& the the ceiling is doom-like & 
made of lace. there are horses with
no legs & frogs jumping again & again
into the same small pool of water.
tadpoles ask each other what size 
the sky is. a group of flowers
gossip about the body of a stranger
& the silhouette of her figure is crooked
against a bold white sun. train tracks
all over & especially where 
they don't belong. train tracks made 
of ribs & iron & the train no where
to be found. the train is the idea
of something impending. only girls 
are told they have impending bodies--
like there is a kind of inverted eden 
on the back of a flock of a geese.
the geese plant their feathers in the ground
& hope on of them will take room & become
a willow tree. i have played underneath 
the idea of a willow tree & pretended
i could feel the brush of each branch 
on my skin. i told the tree this was
the only place i wanted 
to be-- that i would live here forever 
if the tree would let me believe 
in a space not yet grown into.
there is a process to catching moths--
two cupped palms. there is a process to catching 
the whole body & the itch of fabric
& the closeness to skin & the skin 
giving in to iron. the white asking the body
to come closer to the edge of 
a creek-- asking for washed feet 
& threads cut off hands from when 
they were sewn in with the birds.
birds with out heads. trees with out roots
wobbling in the dirt. the body with all 
its extension & mechanisms to make it whole.
breasts perfect & round as they 
should be. the skin of oranges growing over
naked tender fruit. nakedness walking
on all fours & humming to itself. 
the ears of rabbit twitching with worry.
the rabbits pass the needle & the thread
between each other until they're each attached
mouth to mouth. organs for breathing.
i want to leave but there's something 
tighter in me than want. there's something
warm & wild that needs this 
kind of body & so i stay & toss rocks 
skipping them in the sky where they 
all simmer in the sun & 
crack like white eggs in the heat.

we once took a field trip

to a corn field. the big yellow bus pulled up
& opened its doors just to thrust us out
into the crowd of stalks. none of us 
had names yet-- just numbers from 1-20.
we took off our shoes on the side of the road.
me & another girl noticed we were wearing
the same white shoes with a tiny flower
on the toe. i wondered what this might mean
& she darted into the thickness before 
i could ask her why she was wearing white shoes--
i had been wearing them to prove how careful
i could work--to get ready for a sacrament 
without a title. this was a giant corn field--
no this was a monstrous cornfield no this was 
a mammoth corn field-- practically a forest.
the teachers had run away so there was
no one to ask questions to. i wanted to know
when they harvested a field like this 
& how the corn grew as big as our forearms.
the teachers were all made of silk or glass
& we didn't need them. there was one teacher
who turned into a wind chime & the whole class
wept but i thought it was happy. in the field 
i wondered if we were all going 
to make it out-- if maybe this trip 
was meant to leave some of us in the soft earth.
i felt bodies pass mine. i felt fingers 
or was that the thin green leaves of corn?
i felt hair or was that the hair 
off each ear? there is no difference 
in moments like this between a child's body
& a corn stalk. bare feet in mug.
a scheme of foot prints. the laughter-screams--
unsure if we're scared or enthralled.
we need a church to kneel in.
we need a television bursting with 
flowers. where is the souvenir shop? 
we needed something to take home to prove
we were all here in a corn field.
some others find there way out but 
i don't want to leave. i want to stay here
& talk more to the sun swelling above us.
i want to ask what it eats & if the clouds
are really the plump ghosts of animals 
or just water like the teachers say.
i slam into another student & my head throbs
from the collision. i can't find them & hope
they're okay. i briefly wondered if that was
actually myself-- if all the children were
mirrors of me all sprinting 
in the freshness-- all hungry for yellow--
all watching the sun turn into a tangerine.
i could peel the skin off & find 
those sweet citrus lobes like the chambers 
of an alien heart. i could live in the field 
& never have to sit in a desk again.
to this day i think they took us to the field
to be cruel--to show us how free we could life
if we didn't have to go & be orderly humans
each day. in the years that followed each time
someone would ask what i wanted to be when 
i grew up i would suppress the urge to say
corn stalk corn stalk corn stalk.

a bruise is sweet 

we go to look at eye shadow palettes 
at CVS even though they're cheap & made from 
smashed bugs & weeping plants.
one girl mentions that colors come 
out of her eye lids naturally--
that she doesn't need to rely 
on eye shadow like the rest of us.
i want blue & silver-- i want my face
to suggest it was once a window 
of sky. we all gather around the pools of color.
we all hold up our wrists 
to check what the colors would look like 
on our faces. there's no color 
anywhere else only in makeup. the sidewalk 
is a light grey & all our bodies are 
different shades of grey &
all our finger nails are a very faint grey
& at night even the stars are grey.
sometimes i take eye liner pencils 
& scribble the grass indigo or violet &
my lips green. no one remembers
what colors go where. the voices 
on TVs urge us to 
stick to our own faces & to
not get too wild with the last bits
of color or they might leave too.
the eye shadow palettes 
glisten. the eye shadow palettes promise
to make our faces in the landscapes.
i draw a desert on my friend's lips 
complete with a cactus flower.
i draw a coral reef on another's 
cheek & it brought out her bones.
i said before i want to be
the sky but i also want 
purple dripping from
my throat-- as if a bruise is a sweet
kind of tropical fruit. i open
a palette & dip my fingers in color,
licking each instead 
of painting with them. each color tastes
like sleeping-- like inverted greys--
as if a taste could save us.
i shrink down to the size of
an ant & frolic in the cakes 
of the palette-- feet covered in color.
i send my friends at text message explaining
i will never return & three people like it
& the other ones are already 
buried in their own palettes. oh color!
oh eco-system!
blue finger tips & a mirror to check 
myself in.

dripping

wherever i go the ceiling 
begins to leak.
it doesn't even have to be raining
sometimes the water just comes down--
a trickle a bucket 
a cupped handful of water on the top 
of my head. i don't think it's god but i do
think it's the angles with nothing else
to do but to try & wash me.
in my last year of college 
the ceiling of my bedroom turned into a lake. 
i never let anyone inside because
they wouldn't believe it with all it's 
flora & fauna--a full eco system right
in my ceiling complete with 
water grasses & bull frogs jumping
from the rocks near the edge.
the ducks left their feathers 
on my floor & fathers & their sons 
came to fish on weekend mornings 
while i'd try to sleep in but always
just ended up watching them & wishing
they would ask me to join them. 
where i live now there is no lake 
or even an ocean. the water here is more 
fickle & i'll go weeks without it coming down
all over me & then all of a sudden something 
wild like a river will rip through 
the hallway, leaving fish thrashing 
on the carpet. i toss the fish & the tangles 
of reeds out the window with this happens.
i'm worried my housemates will think
it's my fault-- that i bring furious water
wherever i go. i know it is my fault 
but i don't know how to stop it. 
how do you stop water? i have tried asking gently,
explaining that this isn't the time or place 
for a current but that just makes
the water more eager. i suggest the bathtub 
& the water laughs, splashing my face.
minnows dart like stray heart beats
around the submerged floor of my room.
i think of how in my hometown i used to
think the creek was the most romantic spot in town.
i want to show my partner the water--
i want to pull them under 
& watch them hold their breath. i want their hair
to sway like grass. sometimes i wonder
if everyone is plagued with bodies of water 
like this-- if we just never tell each other
& survive it each with our own devices.
i buy rain coats & sometimes close my eyes
until the river passes & the apartment 
is drips with its remnants.

there is a closet full of guitars

in various states of withering.
the door is ajar like perused lips--
like a mouth with no teeth.
i open my own mouth & check for strings
underneath my tongue. broken frets 
& crooked necks & hollowed out bodies 
& skeleton stomachs all hum together--
all tell stories of fingers. they are all
my father's or my grandfather's. all made
of wood. all made of gun powder & 
open potato chip bags & pacing.
there are footsteps in those instruments.
there are long nights & lips 
pressed to brown bottles & children floating
in piles of bath tub bubbles.
i never put the guitars there but i still
feel responsible-- like they decided
they had to visit me-- like they thought
i might reach my hands in & save them.
a doctor comes to reach his hands in my mouth
while i lay in my bed. when i say doctor 
i really mean stranger. a stranger comes
to reach his hands in my mouth & he counts
my teeth & i ask if he remembers his father
& if his father played guitar. it's difficult 
to talk with someone else's hands in your mouth
& he says hush hush hush so i listen 
& he removes a guitar pick from 
under his tongue. he pulls strings & of me
& tunes them. he sings a Simon & Garfunkel song
my dad & i used to sing & the lyrics 
spin through me. maybe the stranger 
is my father-- no probably not he's too young
& my father wouldn't be in my bed room like this.
i do wonder if it was him who filled
that closet. did i deserve this? 
i consider getting in there with the guitars
& telling them how sad they make me.
maybe sad isn't the right word but 
sometimes i hate synonyms-- i'm not forlorn 
or solemn or unhappy. i'm just very sad.
there's no good reason for it so 
i will blame the guitars & tell them
no to leave me-- that i need them there 
& i'll leave the door slightly open
& i'll sleep with my mouth open 
hoping guitars fill that space too.
they tell me i should sleep now & i listen.
they tell me i'm a good son & 
i shake my head & they mimic me
shaking their broken necks too.

the rain comes down in mirror fragments 

& i could sleep much longer
if i could train myself to have dreams
of eating decadent foods; i want
chocolate cakes & duck wings 
but i don't eat meat--is it still 
a sin if i just do it in a dream?
i once admitted to a boyfriend
that i had dreams of sleeping with other people
& he didn't talk to me for two days so 
i had more dreams of sleeping with more people.
we hid under the bed--we found beaches 
with pink sand. i fall asleep sometimes 
with a fork in my mouth (not on purpose).
i get up & go outside first thing
to see what the rain has done laying slices 
of reflection all over sidewalks & 
wedged in the torsos of trees.
i'm not scared of my own reflection 
but i prefer a different version of myself
that only exists in my head. i collect mirrors
& i'm careful of the sharp edges. i hang the mirrors 
on the walls of the apartment. i see myself 
from six different angles. i am hungry 
when i wake up no matter how much i eat
before i fall asleep. i try sleeping with
boxes of cereal for pillows. i try a pillowcase
full of cookies--all no luck. i still wake up
feeling like a corridor empty & echoing.
i take the fork & jam it into the wall as 
decoration. i'm not sleeping well 
to be honest. i wake up all night long
& set the table in case guests arrive.
we don't have a table actually so i just
toss the plates at the ground & hope
a table catches them. outside one day
maybe it will rain tables & i'll be able
to piece on together. i stand on the porch &
wonder if the storm is actually over or if
this is just the eye. the eye whirls
like a bowl of soft berries. i live with
everyone & no one. if i had my own house
i would never let anyone else inside.
i would put caution tape all over 
& spill the mirrors on the ground. everyone
should look at their own reflection 
when they make promises. i make promises 
to the mirrors-- no strike that i tell secrets
to the mirrors & i'm not telling you what 
i said. everyone want to know your 
every detail. i have details you can only find
if you know how to look at a face. 
i want to eat churros in a dream tonight
because i've never had one. i want to eat 
churros fed to me by beautiful men.
i'm cheating on something. i want my dreams
to come out of my forehead as a projector
a film reeling on the wall. i want you to watch.
delicious come eat with me. i'll put utensils
down your throat while you sleep.
i love you beautiful everyone. sit criss-cross
i don't have any chairs here yet. 

what do you want to be when you grow up?

there are anatomically correct hearts
growing on trees this morning-- 
thick with summer 
& heat. the children take sticks &
smack at them 
&, for better or for worse, 
all the neighborhood cats 
have all disappeared. the children are 
doing that thing that kids do 
when they're scared, making fun of it.
they don't like to see such bold body parts--
they don't like to think of the world
beneath their own skin. they tease
one of the boys & tell him that he doesn't
have a heart & that his hearts are the ones
growing on trees. i take old shoes
& fill them with dirt: converse &
running shoes & a pair of white heels.
i go to plant them 
& i shoo the neighborhood children away 
with a fly swatter. they buzz. i buzz.
there's something too throbbing about nature lately.
there's something sticky on the sidewalk
which might be bold or might be syrup.
i eat syrup from a bowl & ask the trees
if they want any but they're carnivores now 
which i think is a little bit extreme.
the kids decide to follow the trees lead
& also only eat meat. i tell them 
that the grass is free to chew on 
but they want hearts & liver & kidney
& feet. my shoes love the dirt--
they swallow it so i feed them more. i ask them
what kind of plant they'd like to grow up
to be & they all want to be trees with big
thick hearts. the children answer too
they want to grow up to be rich & if not rich
they want to be useful-- they want to be loved--
they want to be influencers or at least
made of muscle & bone. at least edible.
most things are edible if you try.
there was some man who had a chef prepare his shoes--
he eat the whole thing bit by bit & i think
now why would he do that? my shoes are happy 
getting to become something with roots
but maybe i should have eaten them.
i warn the children that the hearts off the trees
probably don't taste very good but they're 
kids so they don't want to listen--
in fact the whole place is so full of beating
that they might not have heard me.
they were told a story in school about 
hunters eating the hearts of the lions they killed.
they knock the heart down & break it into pieces
like an orange-- the lobes come apart.
the color of a grapefruit & the taste of 
a balled up piece of aluminum foil.
they chew. new trees grow 
from the carcasses of shoes. i see the shoes 
on the kids feet & i wish i could steal them.
i could plant such happy new trees & maybe
those new trees would grow something bright
like lemons or cantaloupes. the hearts are 
everywhere & i'm sad. 
they go at all different rhythms. 
i know everyone's scared it's like living
in the barrel of a drum but this is how
a community like this solves a problem
they just ignore it & send the children.
my shoe-trees are weak & thin.
i go out to water them with pear juice
& pray it inspires fruit in them.

landscape

I wondered lonely as a cloud
-William Wordsworth

clouds are the ghosts of old dead mountains 
& sometimes they tell each other stories
of wild animals they used to feel across 
their skin: bears & wildcats & 
all the different grey feather birds & yes
hawks we can't forget the hawks 
& i'm sitting outside & wondering
how hard i would have to pray to become a cloud
like all of them--i think to myself 
i'm a mountain i'm a mountain but i always 
get smaller. yes i remember this is due 
to erosion. i am the hunk of rock shrinking
in the rain & asking to please get taller
but never getting taller. all the mountains
i know are shrinking & in not so long
they will look like scars & not like mountains.
i wonder if the scars on my body turn into
clouds too. i look for my pain in the sky
among the bruised sunset. i look for the sunset
in the color of my body. the mountains are tired
& deserve to live so light up there--
deserve the opportunity to rain. as for me
i'm not really sure what i deserve. someone tells me
i deserve better. someone tells me i deserve
to be loved but i feel like these things
are not special or specific to my body.
maybe my body deserves the color orange 
or a hawks with it's white & brownish feathers.
maybe i deserve clouds talking to me
& telling me that it won't be long now
before all the tall things are air. 
i asked a cloud if skyscrapers count
as mountains & the clouds thinned out--
growing thinner & more depressed. i shouldn't
have asked. how do you know your landscape
is real & not just a painting? i don't know yet
but i did see an airplane & the airplane
drove right through the cloud & i want 
to knock on the window of the plane &
say hey do you know you just 
went right through the center of a mountain?
& the pilot would say that he did know--
that when he was young he would take a shovel
& try to dig through mountains & now
that he's older & has this machine he can.
i can fly sometimes. i can hurt myself in flight.
i can feel the droplets of water in my skin.
i am a pouch of marbles. i am a so much
a cloud especially if the cloud has hints
of acid rain. i am caustic. i am cancerous
but only to trees. i am looking for a mountain
to help ascend into the sky. 
i take handfuls of earth & tell the mountain
to get up off its back & go where 
it's cool & blue & uncluttered.

in case we shrank 

small as a pencil or even smaller 
the size of small espresso spoons,
we collected
the cock tail swords from the counter
at the tavern. there's always 
the possibility of becoming
a miniature version of yourself.
my younger brother admitted he had this fear too
& that when we'd play with the doll house
in the attic that he would 
take inventory of all the details
in preparation for the chance
he might have to take shelter there.
he noted how loud the door bell
would seem to us if we were that small.
we got dinner at the tavern about
once a week & started filling our pockets
with the tiny plastic swords each time.
my favorite were the blue ones
but my brother wasn't picky.
all the while we watched our dad
sip from tall glasses with frothy
amber beer. we considered that if 
we all were small we might
have to protect him. the swords
in our pockets jabbed at our thighs.
you skewered fries on your plate
with the swords & i held the sword
between my thumb & index finger 
considering how i might duel 
with that small weapon. there was 
always ketchup on our plates 
& cloth napkins folded in our laps.
dad always offered us his spears of pickle.
i considered how if i were tiny 
i would be able to climb inside
his giant burgers-- how i could hide 
among the lettuce & feel the hot cheese
melting against my skin--
how he might bite down without
noticing i was there & with my plastic sword
i would have to prick the top
of his mouth. the truth was 
i wasn't scared of shrinking-- i was eager.
i wasn't sure what phenomenon
might cause it to happen but i was 
thoroughly prepared-- i prayed for it.
i was ready for something
to change. in my bedroom i piled
the cocktail swords up on my dresser.
i considered how the scene resembled 
the aftermath of a great battle
where a kingdom of small men had died
& left there swords for a small strange girl
in a rural town. i don't know 
what my brother did with the swords when he got home.
i wonder if he kept them like me
or if he took them 
right to the trash 
or if he became small 
without telling me. if, maybe, he crawled
underneath his bedroom door & 
down the stairs to the backyard
where he would be able to 
watch the fireflies glow
as big as himself.

i believe in you

over text, mom & i agree we
hate the way people in exercise videos talk.
she wants to find a video with just stretches.
outside a tree is touching its toes.
outside a telephone wire is cracking its neck.
i consider my own body & what muscles 
want to be stretched & which ones 
want to feel ache. i lay on the floor
& look up at the ceiling, considering
all the rubber bands under my skin.
just then a person from 
one of my fitness videos is in my room.
she's talking about how to get flat abs.
she's in blue fitness clothing
& has a perfect straight pony tail.
she made sacrifices to the ocean--
burning the limbs of trees & setting them
out into the water. she ate only the rinds
of lemons & drank vinegar from a jug.
she wants to help me get lean & fit.
she offers me a special protein shake
& i say no, so she drinks the whole
blender-full in front of me--
great huge gulps. she says she's made
of protein. she says she prays
to protein & that she'll teach me too.
i say i don't pray anymore--
that i'm not sure how i would 
begin. she shows me a starting position.
she says this move is great for your
obliques. she says this is the kind of move
that god loves. she says you can do it
& i believe in you
& can you feel the fat cells crying?
i can. i can feel a great weeping 
underneath my skin & i want 
to make it stop. i feel each muscle 
asking for a quiet shell to lay down in.
i hear the ocean hungry for better
offerings. i hear the rain coming down
outside the window. she leans in closer
& tells me i'll never learn how
to die if i can't dedicate myself.
she says i have to commit--
that if i'm not careful i'll become 
my mother. i know i must be getting older
because for the first time i can remember
i don't mind the idea
of becoming her-- in fact i feel
there's no avoiding it--that part
of having a body is feeling the channels 
of your parents. the women from the exercise video 
was brown from the clear egg
of beautiful frogs. she is glossy 
on the inside. she deserves perfect legs 
& perfect arms. she is toned.
she is standing on the windowsill 
& telling me to not stop yet--
that i'm almost there. i ask
almost where? & before she can answer
& plummets down 
turning into a perfect song bird 
before hitting the pavement.