my grandmother has a plastic lawn

& the lawn men come
to mow it twice a week & she sits 
in a floating arm chair while she watches
them work out the front bay window.
they have hair on their arms.
they have great muscles.
my grandmother has a feather dusters 
& she dusts the busts on her mantel--
the head of athena & the skull of her mother.
she wants to be reminded 
that there's a long beaded necklace
of mothers. she sneezes from the dust.
she plucks feathers out of the duster
& sticks one in her hair
to feel beautiful. my grandmother 
grows plastic flowers on her porch.
they're non-specific: blue & purple.
a plastic bruise on the porch.
they don't drink the water so 
it just spills. some nights she feeds
the plastic flowers-- cutting her
meals on wheels side dishes in half
& dropping them with a fork 
on the flower's petals. she want
to feed the men who mow the lawn 
but can't bother them because they're working.
my grandmother died a few years ago
& this is a different grandmother--
one almost everyone has but doesn't visit
because she won't remember them 
or she lives too far away in a box 
on the moon. on her kitchen table
is a bowl full of plastic grapes & when i was little
i used to pluck one off & slip
it into my mouth to chew on. alone 
at the table she does the same-- gnawing 
on the purple orb-- wondering
if maybe she chews it long enough 
it might become a sweet morsel. outside the lawn
smells like burning rubber. the man is gone 
so my grandmother crosses herself & sighs,
remembering his large company. 
she goes back to feeding her flowers
& says eat up, you want to grow up 
to be real flowers.

i imagine an attic where i am warm & yellow 

by dusk at the playground
i'm there eating an apple the size 
of my baby brother's head.
i'm biting into the fruit to find
stray seeds-- 
this one is full
of the zebra texture
sunflower pods-- a blurred slide
of black & white film.
the sunflower is the most 
contagious of all plants
despite what they might tell you
about dandelions. the sunflower
will learn how to grow 
from the carcasses of peaches 
& plum & acorns & yes 
sometimes apples.
the sunflower shoots up tall 
as the monkey bars.
i think about the seeds i find
under my tongue at night
& wonder if they want to make
a sunflower out of me.
i wouldn't be good at it.
i'm terrible at standing still
& i don't know how to eat light.
though, it is true that if i could
i would feast like plants do 
instead of all this nonsense 
of forks & ovens & plastic grocery bags.
i would kneel, yes, & crawl
in the beams & feel so full all day.
then when night would come i would be
tired & content & taking spoonfuls 
of the vanilla bean moon from the icebox. 
i spit the seeds out in my hand 
& toss them at the hopscotch squares
& the squares shutter, alive,
the scales of a mammal.
i step in its back & it grunts
as i bounce from square to square.
i am too old for all of this.
i should have been a sunflower
so long ago. the hopscotch squares
turn into patches of grass
so soft i have to sleep there.
the playground all exists
in the attic this apartment doesn't have--
this playground is reverting 
to sunflowers-- rows of them
& more tearing through the skin
of each apple sitting in the bowl
on the kitchen table.
hopscotch squares spreading to the walls.
i toss seeds in all dimensions
& in mid air 
a few turn to stone.

prayer/ song to harry houdini 

tell me about the first time 
you had a lover put your in a straight jacket
tell me if you let them pull your hair
or if you writhed like a garbage bag of birds.
i want to know all your favorite 
spots on the body
to feel pain--
i like the teeth & how they ring
like a ceiling of bells when they're hit.
i like knuckles because they trick me
into believing there are walls possible 
in me. you once slipped out
of a giant's mouth without him knowing
but came back to do it again & again.
teach me captivity.
teach me spectacle.
i want to draw a crowd.
i want to hide keys in my throat
& hold my breath 
so long underwater that 
the onlooker will know
i am part octopus.
there are so many different kinds
of locks-- each with a cave 
you once lived in
feeding only off the sound of mouth wings 
& the turning of other locks.
you once climbed into a box 
with chains around your ankles 
& your assistants threw you over 
the side of a ship.
i practice this same trick
only i stand on the fire escape 
out my apartment window
& count cars on the street below.
harry, there are different kinds 
of running water. harry,
did you see locks or mouths?
i want your hands down my throat.
i want you to turn until i open.
is this love? 
this might just be worship. 
did you ever pray
in the midst of a show?
did you feel that pin-pick of desperation
that turns all of our bodies to questions?
this is why i am speaking to you 
because i think you might 
dream of escape just as much as i do.
you might make languages
out of mirrors. you might be hiding--
slinking from closet to closet
pretending each door opens
to a room full of people.
i am a room full of people
i want you to bind my hands.
i want you to hang me by my feet upside down.
i brought locks for us
of all sizes & 
i want to put a collar around
your neck & swallow 
all our keys.

the hearts of small animals 

pink leaking pink, 
soft tissue; 
hovering organs 
hung out of a green clothesline.
i used to see bleeding hearts flowers as 
proof of god,
wondering how nature could know 
that, despite all evidence,
humans believe hearts 
look like paper cut-outs.
there used to be a bush outside
the old church where we had girl scouts 
& each april afternoon on the walk there
i would stop & fill all my pockets 
with the flower's hearts
when no one was looking.
i knew they must be the hearts 
of small creatures:
butterflies, toads, 
or maybe even a rabbit--
i could see them emerging from 
the bundle of trees at the back 
of the graveyard at dusk 
to pull their flower-heart 
out of their mouths & hang it there
as a fair well
similar to the graves they spent
their lives weaving between.
closest to the church were the oldest graves
some of the stones illegible 
names & dates smoothed away by the rain. 
i planted the hearts in the dirt by 
those worn stones, pretending
the animals could share the plots
with these humans.
under the dirt they might trade 
stories about what smells they miss most on earth-- 
the small animal might try 
to help the human bones remember 
their names-- guessing all through the night
all the wild their flower heart
rebuilding their body again.
i used to hope i'd by buried 
in that cemetery someday in a plot 
with all my family. 
sitting between the stones 
with my pocket full of the hearts 
of small creatures 
i would grin thinking how one day
a toad might visit me 
& try to remind me 
what i was called.

in a costume closet full of dresses 

i picked the white one:
layers of frill
doilies kissing each other
the gills of a communion wafer
filtering out dust
collar like a dinner place-mat
i hung forks from my ears
& bit a knife in my mouth.
i was young
high school 
didn't know better.
no one told me.
the fins of a cloud shark
steam turned fabric
cauliflower sliced impossibly thin.
i walked around all that year
pretending my face was
a slab of meat loaf
bread crumbs mushed under skin
& ketchup in veins--
this kind of dress 
was made for a play no one remembers
this kind of dress follows you 
for years after you touch it.
talks to you in lists of small pure objects:
cork, thimble, glue, pillow case
even now a week from my 
23rd birthday i see the dress
from time to time,
folding itself carefully
beneath a layer of shirts in my drawer
or standing tall 
from a hanger in the closet
it just wants to be touched
but it's contagious
i have to put it on
go all the way in--
escape into that hallway 
of luster--
pretend my body is food
swaddled in tissue paper: 
angel food cake 
white chiffon
meringue peaks.
i walk around the house at night like this
where no one else can see
a boy in a white dress asking
to be eaten.
the bugs come out & i tell them 
to be gentle--
to take what they must just
don't let me watch.
i put my hand over my eyes.
last night i told all my friends
that one morning they'll wake up 
& find me completely devoured.

room with no windows

jay's mom said she once stayed 
in a hotel-room with no windows.
i think to myself that if i can pretend
this is a hotel room for however long
i live here that i will get by without
those shades of light i miss--
the orange of morning & the greyish blue 
of early dusk.
at this hotel they
made a fake window with curtains
sewn to the walls & a row of lights 
to imitate day. 
she was unaware there was no window
until the first night she flung open the curtains 
to find the lights.
i imagine what it would be like to fling open
all curtains to find the same row of bulbs
instead of the street below or 
the skeleton of a tree by the house. 
i bring curtains into my room & i don't make
just one window, 
i make as many as will fit
on the walls-- small windows large windows 
windows in the shape of pentagons
& small thin windows.
i cut curtains to fold across 
each of these shapes & lights
to hid beneath them.
before bed i turn some lights on
& some lights off. 
i pretend my windows are each open to a different place 
i've never been but want to go.
this room is a hotel everywhere.
this room is world of curtains.
this room is where i will sleep
& wake up somewhere different each day.
forgetting this all i'll sometimes
step up to a window 
as if to look out & i will remind myself
that just like a hotel
i'm not entirely anywhere.

a forest is eating a ferris wheel

teenagers still try
to climb up into the baskets 
to kiss-- 
peeling vines 
off one another's bodies--
watch nameless white flowers
unfurl from their lover's ears & nostrils.
the rusted seats wince 
as they rock--
neither considering 
how precarious this all might be.

the forest thinks of the ferris wheel
like a thicket of pretzel sticks--
the humans there like glinting 
crystals of salt.
the forest is jealous 
of the humans though because they 
get to hold each other.
the forest hold onto the ferris wheel
& pretends it could be a knot of trees--
that maybe by clutching it 
the trees might ascend from 
their rust & replant themselves
in the earth.

the couple considers the clouds 
& whether or not they would support 
the weight of their bodies.
they laugh & one reaches
balancing on the ferris wheel,
catching the edge of a cloud.
the cloud is coarse as steel wool
& so they let go & decide
that the only place they 
can be in love in the ferris wheel
& they will stay there for 
the rest of their lives.
they regret that this isn't a carnival
& that the ferris wheel has no light
& there's no thick sweet funnel cake smell.

the forest makes a carnival of itself--
light bulbs swelling from the necks of trees
& flickering with brief electricity.
the forest pretends these humans aren't
in love with each other but rather
are in love with the depths of the trees
& the green all around them.
the forest finds apples in the chests 
of trees & wild blue berries tangled
in the thoughts of bushes--
dropping the fruit around the ferris wheel.

the couple eats by feeding 
each bite to the other--
berry by berry. they are young & 
carnival music naturally comes from 
their warm skin.
they kiss with tongue 
like neither of them have before. 
mouths full 
of candied bone--
calliope tongue. 

the forest tries to make itself
a body, casting shadows 
in all directions, none of them
becoming flesh. the forest
churns the ferris wheel faster 
until the couple is dizzy,
stumbles back onto the earth
where they fall out of love instantly
& leave going separate directions.
slowing the ferris wheel down 
the forest sits with itself--
flicks the carnival lights 
on & off

someone's birthday cake

flat white-icing playground-oceans
all lined up in the open supermarket fridge
like a map of square states. 
at the Weis bakery it's always someone's birthday.
red icing balloon--red icing rose--
sweet thick yellow cake.
billy & i hover over the fridge
& take guesses about what people might write.
i make up sad things because i like the idea
of icing holding phrases like 
farewell & i hope you come back someday.
the hopeful sibling, billy wants
the cakes to say 
hello & guten tag &
i'm so lucky to know you & 
let us thank god you are here on earth.
i imagine a future where my brother & i
only communicate by sending each other 
messages on cakes.
right then i would hand him one that says 
i wish i saw you more.
we open the lid of one of the sheet cakes
& step one at a time onto its surface.
a great wide sweet expanse of land.
i say we can build a fort
on the far corner near the burst of icing flowers.
together we trek there & i tell him 
a story about how one birthday dad & i got up
at 7am & no one else was up
so we went to the store right then 
& got a cake for breakfast. billy asks 
was i there? & i can't remember.
what is a family but an exchange of faint stories. 
what is a brother but someone 
to sleep beside on your birthday cakes. 
we pretend the icing flowers are a garden 
& we eat them in handfuls.
billy says that he used to never want anything
for his birthday because it seemed selfish.
i do remember that-- years where we 
kept celebrations small & just with family.
i ask him if he regrets it & he doesn't.
i wish i was more like my brother.
when we leave we put a sign on the fort
that reads: gow brothers
just in case it's there still when we return.
i ask my brother 
if he remember my birthday
& he doesn't. i know his, october 21st,
though i'm not sure when i learned it--
there had to have been a moment 
when i committed it to memory.
i tell him july 20th & he repeats it,
saying i won't forget this
we write that on the cake:
i won't forget this. 
i won't forget this. 

there's just a diving board

in the middle of the yard.
no pool,
we didn't have enough for that 
so dad bought the diving board &
told us to go have fun.
solitary in the middle of the yard.
diving board surrounded by grass 
& the hum of carpenter bee who eat the garage.
my brothers & i rubbed globs of slick sun-screen 
on each others shoulders--
put on bathing suites.
we took turns standing at the end of the board,
shimming closer to the ledge.
my brothers & i were all scared of jumping
even on those afternoons we walked
to the public pool.
i had a fear i would jump &
all the water would fly out of the pool--
i didn't used to be scared of that but 
boys started chanting that i shouldn't jump
because i was too fat.
i'd try to point my toes to slip in the water
as quietly as possible.
no matter the splash they would laugh.
or, maybe worse, there would be a prehistoric
shark waiting beneath the surface & he might 
snatch me from the air the instant i touched
the chlorine stinging water.  
we were scared of 
our back-yard diving-board for different reasons.
one brother believed the board
was the ledge of a building. he cried
& turned back, saying 
he liked his life & didn't want to die yet.
on the ledge, another brother 
wept the he couldn't turn into a bird.
he crouched down & dad had to come outside
to get him off the diving board.
i was the least scared because i'm the oldest.
i mostly go stand on the diving board
at night. i won't jump because if i do
it will all turn to water--
everything: the garage full of scrap wood,
the pile of red stones by the big tree, recycling cans
& the big tall tan house we live in.
i'm bold, so i bounce up & down 
on the diving board, feel the plastic wobbling.
i consider all the water
& wonder if i could 
hold my breath that long. 
i want to have fun with the diving board--
want to make a whole summer of it. 
each day i lead my brothers out to the yard
first thing in the morning 
so dad can see us before he leaves for work,
all of his sons standing on the end 
of a diving board. 
his brave sons 
who appreciate the diving board,
who won't get eaten in the deep end
of the public pool, and
who love the dirt enough to not turn
it all to water.

i won't be lonely now that i have a SHAM-WOW

and i can spill anything.
my last partner said that loving me
was like dating an over-turned glass of water-- 
that i'm looking for someone 
to soak up all my stress & all my pain 
for me. i think of those info-mercials 
that came on between early morning cartoons
how a man would shout & demonstrate all the ways
the rag could absorb--
i imagine ringing like lovers out
over the sink & the liquid coming out
all whirly-rainbow like pools of gasoline in parking lots.
i start off simple with
glasses of water clear across 
the hardwood floor so that i can really
witness the flow--
get to pretend i'm making new bodies of water
in the kitchen of my house.
maybe i do want someone to take in 
all my grief for me
or maybe i just want a SHAM-WOW in my chest
to fill up with those throat-sobs 
you can only conjure every once in awhile.
i'm not having that bad a time.
i'm not that big a mess--
i just happen to be not the most fun
to be in love with. i just happen 
to keep lists of all the items
i want to splash on the floor:
orange juice, melted butter, blood.
when i say blood i mean like blood
from a package of meat even though
i don't eat meat. 
i wipe down all the surfaces
in the house. my favorite is 
the stainless steal fridge-- how when polished
you can actually make out some semblance
of your own reflection. i ring out 
the SHAM-WOW in the sink again & again 
& each time i have to think of that partner 
because when someone says something like that
it never goes away. i wonder if they 
spill glasses of water without me.
i go to the lake near my house where i grew up
& i dip the SHAM-WOW in & out of the water
until i mop the whole thing up.
i can't stop i move onto oceans.
i hope all the people i loved know it's me
when they arrive at the beach 
& find it early empty-- just fish 
writhing in the sand. i spilled each ocean
but especially the atlantic because 
it deserved to be spilled. 
i watch the info-comercial again & this time
the host tries to convince me to give back 
my SHAM-WOW & i say NO
because i am alone & 
i need someone or something to witness 
all of gorgeously water pools
on the hardwood floor.