to explain the glass 

i sometimes imagine someone
hurling bottles at the sidewalk:
brown & green. they've been 
saving these up for this purpose
a great big bucket nearby the door.
now it's that day,
the same every month where
they go down to the empty 
grocery store parking lot 
to release something. close to the ocean
in chincoteague the sand is just smashed shells.
when i was small i would think 
that with enough patience they could all 
be put back together.
i would take handfuls of shell &
feel the sharpness like a bowl
of dinosaur teeth. now this person,
let's call them a boy, still throwing bottles.
this person is me. i'm throwing bottles
at the asphalt. each is bursting like
a firework & the glass scatters.
i like to pretend 
there was something precious inside
each bottle that disappears on impact:
a wedding ring, a secret,
a pair of baby shoes. there are baby shoes
stepping on the crushed shells.
there are bare feet roaming the glass.
this is my parking lot & i will 
break what i need to:
soda & beer bottles. a lover sleeping 
in a room of brown glass.
a pair of legs wading into the ocean.
the ocean always pretending 
to be so much farther away
than it really is. a shore of broken bottles.
i'm throwing shells at the pavement
& they're not breaking so 
i take a rock & i feel like
a piece of nature to be 
so forceful. i smash them with
bronzed baby shoes that aren't
my own. i break the whole basket
of bottles & when i'm done 
i touch the fragments.
i pretend a church window died here 
or maybe a ship in jar.
i want to put them all back together
as an exercise in patience
but i don't have patience so 
i go to that shore
drive all night to get there.
wade into the water
feeling the snapped edges
under my feet.

a fire escape grows on my back

& i tell you to take it--
i tell you to hold onto the railing 
& savor the touch of cool black metal.
in bed i often consider fire.
tonight i'm thinking of how flammable
rubbing alcohol is & how easily 
i could write my name in it across my wall
by using a paint brush
dipped in the bottle.
touch a lighter to the letters.
i don't actually think i could step in front
of a moving train but i stand nearby
in the rubble & watch several pass
until i go back inside. you shouldn't 
let yourself in. you shouldn't use the key
underneath my tongue. you should stay home
where there are windows in every room.
when i say i don't love myself i mean 
i eat the pennies i find on the sidewalk.
when i say i need to move somewhere far away 
i mean that i want you to find 
other boys with differently shaped imaginations.
i don't imagine you with fire
but i imagine you covered in ivy.
i see you as a knot. there is water
coming out of all my cuts
& most times i wake up not remembering
how they got here. how did you let me 
be so cruel to myself. weren't you there
with a bucket full of milk &
a bowl of red plastic apples.
when i say take the the fire escape
i mean get out. i mean there will be 
better nights. i mean there will be 
better boys who you won't ever have to
have an evacuation plan for.
have i told you about each vertebrae? 
have i told you that if someone goes wrong
to call the moon on her cellphone
& tell her that her son is acting irrationally.
yes, you please put me back together.
demand more bedrooms. demand curtains
hanging from the corners of my mouth.
i want to be your straw doll--
your bowl of perpetual burning.
you pick my hair out 
like scraggly dead grass.
i wanted to sleep last night but
i thought & thought & thought myself 
onto the back porch.
onto a frame of sky. onto the throat
of a match. there is gasoline
in the air & it reminds me of stopping
on the side of the highway
& finding refuge in pockmarked bathrooms.
i call a phone number i found on the wall.
it's you. you're the phone number 
on the wall. you love me harshly.
you fall asleep. i wake you up
& tell you to hurry--
that i can feel my bones 
begging to ignite--
that i know you'll burn easily--
a scrap paper--
climb away down my back
& into the warm shimmering night.

i used to want to eat golden delicious apples  

just because of the word "golden" 
in the name-- as if the skin were made
of real gold leaf 
& might flake off as i bit down. 
soft marble flesh. 
i ate them careful & slow as if 
having patience might conjure more magic
out of the fruit.
uncle rich too my brother & i to Mr. Food
every day after school where we'd pick
one snack & one drink. i was determined
to understand golden delicious apples
while my brother plucked his usual piece of beef jerky
from a jar by the register.
cold from sleeping in a fridge, 
the convenience store apples were small & tired. 
it was late may 
& none of the apples remembered 
where they came from. i was in 4th grade 
& i imagined new worlds on top of this one.
i often laid in my bed just looking at the ceiling
pretending i was somewhere else. i made up boyfriends 
& girlfriends to lay next to me. i made up 
clouds to find shapes in. i don't think i had learned yet
how to be lonely. i spit the seeds out in my hand &
i talked to them. i asked them if they 
would grow if i watered them & 
uncle rich said i could try if i wanted to.
so, out back, i took 
my five little dark-brown seeds. i kissed each
before pressing them into dirt.
i watered them. i imagined a vein of gold 
bursting underground. i imagined a tree with shiny apples 
unfurling this summer. i would come inside
& lay the gold on the kitchen table 
where dad would weight each fruit & tell us
how much money it was worth. we would 
buy all kinds of snacks each day with all
that money: skittles & licorice & gummy worms.
we would have so many apples that we'd invent games 
to play with them-- throwing apples at the sun
until it bruised white & yellow--
until the sun was a golden delicious apple
bright with sweet skin. 
i watered the ground & i waited
though i always knew the seeds wouldn't grow.
if it were that easy everyone would happy
a golden apple tree. i drew pictures of them.
i sat under their imaginary shade.
i got sun burn in the shapes of clouds.
i picked the fresh translucent fruit 
& told no one about my tree.

somewhere my ears drown graciously

my headphones are made of salt water 
& are full of bivalves--
those types of calms that talk like beaks.
a perpetual chirping.
the ocean covering its ears.
the headphones dripping.
kelp in between fingers & the silhouette
of a mermaid perched
on the ledge of my out ear
like a promontory. she's probably
brushing her hair. she's probably 
listening to a CD inside her head.
i snap disks in half & drop them
into the water--
watch the light rainbow 
in all directions-- fragments of each song 
muttering in the water--
becoming fish. i close my eyes 
as we all do when we think of 
view finders-- when we look out a window
& think next next next
show me something else.
all my friends have gone wonderful places
& have brought back clams.
i tilt my head till a tiny mollusk comes out my ear.
i let the snail crawl on the walls of
my room & he writes alone alone
alone & i can never tell if he's talking
to himself or me. maybe the message
is for both of us. 
underwater there are no people 
besides divers & they want nothing
to do with a boy with his headphones on
conjuring an ocean.
coral is alive & asking if i would 
be willing to be a rock for them
to grow on. i ask how long that takes
& they laugh & start plating their polyps,
pink & white & dull green.
i want to show my friends.
yes i have something wonderful 
growing on my skin. the reef has snakes.
the reef has sleeping mermaids.
the reef has clams with pearls just
made of sugar. i take a handful 
& sweeten a tea i'll drink in the future.
all this time i'm not actually
underwater. i'm just walking down 
7th avenue with my eyes closed 
& the ocean thrashing inside me.
a car horn turns into a riptide. a mermaid 
is a street light. i am a boy 
who holds his breath-- who crosses street
after street until they become 
a vivid blue. i open my mouth
& the bubbles come out like
apologies. i'm always leaving my body.
i'm always asking what the foliage 
can do for me. i'm asking the stones
how they do it. i'm crouching down
to the asphalt & kissing hot rock-- i'm saying
teach me how to grow traffic like coral.
i'm spilling the ocean from my listening.
not just one ocean but every single one--
all the water combined all safe inside my ears 
where the mermaids are wearing dresses
made of trash bags & singing static.
i open my mouth again 
& out comes an eel-- long & green.
it's on it's way to bryant park.
i'm proud it for deciding to follow
its dreams of living in the city.

god is winding up the cows

& setting them down into the fields 
this morning. they are made of tin
& they wobble as they roam--
a mechanical mouth movement.
chewing on something.
someone pointing out the car window 
saying look cows 
& god with his long fingers 
tucking himself
behind clouds so he's not caught.
god with his new wind up toys.
god with his workshop &
a row of keys to wind each different species.
he's done with blood & skin.
he's done with organs. he loves 
the resistance of metal.
the thing is 
he created death by accident
like how when you spill paints
across a piece of paper sometimes
it looks like art & other times
it looks like a gunshot wound 
or another kind of the mistake.
he loved the shades of blood 
& the malleability of skin
& was thrilled boy bones--
shaving them into all kinds
of wonderful shapes,
his favorite being the pelvis
which he held up & wished the had
a father to show--
wishing he had someone to be
proud of him.
yes, that's why he made jesus.
carpentry is the closest human profession
to making bodies. jesus studied 
the making of bodies.
he wants the shift to be gradual.
not just one morning that whole earth
is full of tin creatures.
he slowly takes a few away--
a patch of cows,
a cage of rabbits,
a few lost deer.
the humans will be the hardest
to make out of metal.
he considers the uniqueness 
of each face. he leans down
to look at his work while part of the world sleeps.
with his long fingers he traces 
a nose, a cheek bone, a forehead.
he cries. he hates skin & he hates blood 
& he hates that his work 
always dies. he imagines painters
canvases growing sick & falling asleep for good--
sculptures no longer holding their postures,
going limp on their pedestals.
he shakes his head & thinks that they
will never understand & he will watch each fall apart
& float to the surface
of heaven's great algae covered pond 
as a flicker of soft spore-like light
barely remembering the body he crafted them
alone in his shop 
by the boiled light of the sun.

there are bird baths

stone. marble. smooth.
splash wing & water.
sprouted overnight in my bed room like
great wide heavy mushrooms.
the bird baths are full of holy water.
the bird baths are warm
like pots of water on the stove 
ready to boil the feathers 
off visiting creatures.
when i was little my father built
bird baths in my room so that 
i would make new friends.
hawk. owl. vulture.
washing their faces in the pools
& yelling loud enough
to crack light bulbs. they never
let me sleep. they insisted 
on sharing secrets & washing each other
all night. i opened the windows 
& told them to get out but each day
they would be back some how & 
the curtains would blow open like flesh
around a wound. i tell the song birds
to whistle in the morning 
to wait for the song, but we're
all prone to loving the moon 
& that's what the blue jays 
& the finches sing to. i pick feathers
off the carpet. i splash water
in my face from the bird bath.
i consider climbing inside--
crossing my legs & sitting in the shallow
bowl of water. i know for a fact
that my father is in love with all birds.
i know that he lets them sleep
in my old bed room. the birds tell
me the whole story & they add
that i should be angry at him 
& that i should fall in love with my own birds
out of spite. to be honest i try
every single night. i stare at their faces 
as they splash water--
as they preen & some of them lay feathers 
on my pillow. i try to imagine
a future with a bird. it would have 
to be a vulture. you have to concede 
the pink skin
of their faces is almost human.
i caress their skulls & they thank me
for letting the bird baths grow.
i let them grow everywhere.
i'm open to considering a whole world
of bird baths--
up & down the street. i just want 
the birds to be happy.
i just want them to stop yelling
at the god damn moon 
yes we know it's glowing
yes we know it's beautiful & 
unreachable. 
yes we need it to be closer & broken down
into edible pieces. will you listen
to the sky for once? 
i'm sorry i should have
more patience. 
yes, yes i love the bird baths.
another blooms where my bed once was
& i know where i need to sleep
& i know what company i'll have
& my father is a bird sleeping
in another bath. he is a vulture.
black feather. hooked beak. 
wrinkled skin.

purple surveillance video

they watch me through lavender 
as i enter each store.
take notes on my walking pace
& the people near by.
they take a crayon & add creatures
to the edges of the screen.
sitting in a tower of a thousand screens
some of which are buzzing with snow.
some of which play videos 
of me as a young girl dressed 
in a pumpkin suite, running on the hardwood floor
of the old house. another shows me
laying in the bath tub surrounded by 
rubber ducks. they keep track 
of me-- somewhere between angel 
& god. they're not making a film 
they're making a mix 
of all the pieces of my movement.
the cameras blink. 
the cameras buzz. the cameras 
are soft & careful so i pet one
behind the ears. my dad used to say
you should only be scared
of being watched if you're
doing something wrong. i must be doing 
so many things wrong
at any given moment.
something i wonder if this will make
a nice video. twelve hours 
of my body entering grocery stores
all strung together.
note the ones late at night.
note the ones where i'm flanked by bubbles
& the ones where i am underwater 
(that's just a special effect).
they make a CGI T-Rex in my front yard
& i wave to it even though
it's kind of invisible. the neighbor think
i'm waving to him but i don't correct
him that my greeting belongs to the T-Rex.
i wonder what his watcher is doing 
with his life-- if maybe he has bigger plans
for the video. i know that i'm always
going to be seen through some shade
of purple because i'm terribly 
afraid of being caught & there's something
afraid about the color purple--
like it knows it's going to be caught
doing something terrible. 
i'm careful.
i treat cameras with kindness.
i make offerings of pressed flowers 
& old shoes-- tell 
the watchers i do not have 
a single cruel thought
that could be caught.

how to be an accelerated museum 

traffic under my finger nails 
& the continuous worrying of horns.
the hoods of cars opening up to reveal
they had been harboring great big 
swan-birds all along. the swan birds
painting master pieces on 
the windows of vehicles as they drive 
(dangerous). someone told me
real art is dangerous. 
this painting is flammable 
this book is an electric fence. 
this electric fence is a performance 
& the cows are learning to run
& the high way is made of pastels 
so everyone is smearing on everyone.
i tell my dog to go to sleep please
to please please go to sleep 
& wake up when the world has less noise
& less colors to keep track of.
if i were to get rid of a color
i would take away red even though
it's hungry. red makes me think 
of the way my dad walks through museums
never pausing at one picture or
another--he moves as fast as he can
as if he's trying to escape something
as if there's someone in a painting 
he doesn't want to run into. 
i'm hanging paintings in my mind
so i can go visit them when 
i'm failing again to fall asleep.
i'm sorry i'm not more patient.
i'm sorry i always want to be moving
faster. bumper to bumper 
there's a school of silver looking fish
all wish paint brush clutched 
in their mouths. they're probably off
to try & believe in something.
i hire an artist to come make 
a museum of my hallway.
i tell him to make it like a flip book.
he asks of what & i say to surprise me.
he surprises me with an animation
of me climbing into a hot air balloon.
i appreciate it very much.
it's a reminder that we all need
to get as far away from the ground
as possible but here i am & i walk
museums just like my dad 
next painting next painting
& everything i write is about him somehow &
the traffic is so red red.

i pull up to the window

to get my order 
& this isn't a mcdonalds 
or a burger king-- this is a house 
with really big nice crystal windows.
this is maybe a neighbor but
i can't quite remember.
i placed my order in my head & repeated 
it until i got close--
i was saying 
tree of cheeseburgers 
tree of cheeseburgers.
i knock on the window
gentle so i don't wake anyone up.
at any time of day someone is 
probably sleeping nearby & thinking
about eating with the hands tied
behind their back. 
in the front lawn of the house
grows a tree of cheeseburgers--
each branch a skewer holding
the burger aloft.
i know i can't eat burgers 
but when i was small & had a face
round like a window
i would order this at a diner nearby.
i removed the burgers 
from their perches & they coo
like morning doves.
i pet the soft buns & decorate
each one differently:
ketchup & mustard smiley face--
pickles as great green eyes--
purple freckled onions like
great cosmic rings. 
i wish i had someone to feed them to.
i ask some people walking by
if they might want a sample but
everyone this morning is
on some kind of diet 
where they won't eat cheeseburgers.
they're all watching their figures.
they're all power waling &
trying to burn extra calories.
i can see the calories floating above
all foods-- that's my super power.
i see everything as energy.
i am hungry but i only eat mustard.
the cheeseburger tree mocks me 
with each dripping patty.
the cows who were once the patties are
grazing in the front yard of the drive through
that is also not a drive through.
you have to understand 
people do this to me too--
knocking on my window at night 
& asking if i can make them happy meals.
i always say yes & then they complain,
saying these are sad--these are so so sad.
every night i invent new games
to trick myself into falling asleep.
this is one of those games--
decorating mini cheeseburgers 
from the neighbor's tree.
i just need to get someone to eat them now.
i offer them to the moon & even she
is vegetarian now. i offer them to 
the mirror & i have no reflection--
so hungry that my body took to eating
all likenesses of me. i disappear from
photographs & drawings & portraits.
more burgers grow on the tree.
someone's van pulls up to my window 
& knocks, pleading 
for more.

the sign at the saucony creek says "don't pick the wildflowers."

i walk the creek after school
with the sky turning bold orange
almost like a highlighter 
& the sound of a soccer game happening 
behind a row of trees.
a whistle blows--someone yells.
all the coolest kids play soccer because 
they're fit enough to run back & forth 
for hours. i'm inclined to moss caressing,
climbing the playground's old maple tree,
& dandelion wishing.
today the wildflowers are bold.
i sit on the bench & the gnats
waltz with near by. i tell the wildflowers 
i'm not lonely, i'm just waiting.
the bloodroot are the first who start
to beg me to take them with me 
when i walk home. they open their white mouths 
& cry with high pitched voices.
i scratch them under the petals 
like you might pet a dog but they still cry.
i gesture to the sign & they say 
they don't-- that the flowers 
should make the rules about what happens
to themselves. the buttercups
are less straight forward 
they tell me they would make
wonderful gifts for a crush. they ask 
who i have a crush on. i tell them
my crushes are all impossible-- that 
i am a chubby girl who doesn't know
how to wear eyeliner right just yet--
who prefers a walk by the skunk cabbage--
admiring their purple & green rubbery skin.
i'm persuaded though & i pick up a buttercup
& put it to my ear. i listen 
to the sound of other girls laughing 
which i hate because i always think 
they're laughing at me. i ask 
the buttercup to say something else 
& this time it sounds like a train whistle:
loud & startling. 
the most tempting of all the wildflowers
is the blue violet. they threaten to turn
into butterflies if i don't pick them all--
every last one of them.
i ask what i would do with all that
indigo & they say everyone at some point
has to be overwhelmed with colors.
i tell them i'm not ready. i ask if
i can come back another day.
the crowd at the soccer game is cheering--
it sounds like someone is winning.
the boy i likes plays soccer--
i imagine him winning. he got the goal.
he's made of trout lilies & he's yellow 
& he's walking towards me to tell me 
he also caresses the moss when
no one is looking. 
the violets insist & so i work 
all through dusk & into 
early evening
plucking purple by their necks.
they ask me truth or dare questions.
they insist i must have been in love
at least once so i make up a story
about a playground romance i didn't have.
i insist that i'm only twelve &
that all of these flowers
are too much for me.
i gather them in my arms & i amble 
the few blocks home.
in my room the violets glow lightly 
& want to talk all night
so i put the buttercups 
in my ears to fall sleep
imagining i'm laying 
on the railroad tracks.