a wedding 

in winter the wedding tent behind the museum
becomes a metal skeleton. just a frame
with its white plastic skin stripped away. 
the dead leaves whirl through its body. 
all january i ambled through that museum park-- 
around the metal bones trying to guess 
the species of the sleeping animal.
a great beautiful whale beached from the tiny stream
that trickled through or maybe an elephant 
who stumbled through in the night. 
i walked there from your house blocks & blocks away.
my chest wrapped with gauze & my fingers 
red from the cold. as i circled the structure
i would try to imagine that place as it was 
in april or may with all the flowers talking wild
into the air & crowds filling the tent there
to exchange vows. i have never been to 
a wedding & i'm this old but then again
maybe those strolls counted as weddings,
each a moment to speak to the dead leaves 
& the naked branches. my first boyfriend & i 
used to walk in this same museum park before
they set up the wedding tent & before i had left
for college & left my body & grew feathers & had
them each plucked out. back then we would talk 
about getting married & i would imagine 
him in a white suite & me in a goddess-like 
white dress. the whole planet would be white.
now i think if i ever get married i want to be 
wearing something auburn or brown. something 
worthy of walking through a skeleton in--
maybe even black. i watched the snow become grit 
& mud. i watched my foot prints. i watched 
the wedding tent lilt in the breeze. trees bare
of everything but their own frames. i imagine us
like that--skeletons for a whole season & i feel
on those walks sometimes just like a skeleton--
like all my flesh is falling off in crisp leaves.
like the breeze is undressing me. 
by the window of the bedroom i stay in
i unwrap the gauze & replace them with 
new fresh white ones. the old gauze are 
yellowed & red & brown around the edges.
yes, i won't be here in the spring
when they put the walls back on the wedding tent.

over-ripening 

some with their foreheads already bursting open,
at the farmer's market stand 
they sold wooden buckets of fading tomatoes for sauce.
gnats telling the red fruit stories 
of their mouths & larger flies hovering nearby
waiting to see if they would sell. 
mom & i would pass & contemplate if we had time
to make tomato sauce as soon as we got home.
the tomatoes sat there pressing into each other
demanding to be cooked down-- each a red planet
seeping with sweet acidic juice. telling each passer by
that they needed to make time for the tomatoes,
change their plans & get a huge metal pot
to make use of the fruit before there
was nothing left to do but give them over to insects. 
we never bought them though occasionally mom & i 
would stand above the baskets & she'd press her fingers 
into the surfaces of the ones on top
to see how much time they had left. the loose skin--
the stems coming loose--the rupturing of flesh.
the tomatoes felt old and young. like sleeping infants 
in a basket together all red with wanting. 
i imagined picking one up & cupping it in my hands--
carrying it home & speaking kindly to it.
maybe that gentleness could buy us more time--
maybe the tomato could regrow thicker skin again
& not leak into nothing. above the tomatoes 
mom & i would turn into those fat buzzing flies
& we'd speak in a language reserved for hunger.
we'd talk about spaghetti & we'd talk about trash
& we'd talk about needing the tomatoes' urgency--
craving the tomatoes' arresting language--
the instruction to make use of a body before you can't.
landing on the table of the stand as flies
the clerk would wave his hands trying to shoo us away
but we'd come back-- insistent that there was something
happening to us because of our proximity to the tomatoes.
the season has passed now & all the tomatoes 
at the grocery store are made of water.
these ending tomatoes were fresh with heat & sun.
these tomatoes had ideas & grandmothers. 
i wanted most of all to stick my hand down into the basket
& mash the tomatoes with my hands--feel their warm guts
between my fingers-- their seeds & their folds 
all becoming gush. no we passed by them &
at the end of the day the farmers dumped the tomatoes
in the big green trash bins for the flies 
that we no longer were. 
we were home or elsewhere

cars that drive themselves 

they're building cars that drive themselves
& soon they'll pace the world like any other animal.
i make believe tonight i'm sleeping over 
at the house i grew up in.
i go out & lay on the hood my old green volvo
like i never have before but have always wanted to. 
the car breathes as it sleeps 
in its reptile skin & worn out tires.
i think about the first day i had the car
& how i drove three hours to pick up
each of my friends all around Pennsylvania.
the toll roads sprawl with forest on either side.
a deer standing between trees & staring
at the river of cars. i put my ear
to the car's cool skin to listen to its organs.
soon it will be hungry & i'll bring out
the left over bones from dinners & 
the scraps from peeled potatoes. on my phone
i read about an accident where a self-driving car
killed a pedestrian & i ask my car
if it would be careful-- if it would always
promise to look both ways. i wonder if 
the car felt remorse. maybe & maybe it 
crawled on all fours to a junk yard
where it's now still waiting to be crushed.
i could trade places though. i could try 
having less of a consciousness. i wonder what
that feels like to just listen to what
another body decides-- a key in my mouth 
the steering wheel twisting inside my chest.
i tell my old car that it doesn't have 
to do anything it doesn't want to-- that it
doesn't have to be alive even if all the the other cars
start taking road trips by themselves. 
i see empty cars parked at the beach &
outside the supermarket at night. 
another car drives itself around the block 
again & again as if it's watching us.
i tell myself it's just curious though i do
worry it's the car that killed a person. 
i open up my car's hood to see all the intricacies
like dissecting a shark but without 
the gloves & scissors. i don't know anything inside 
but i do know that my car is alive 
so i should be gentle. i trace my finger 
across the top of every object that interests me.
i want to sleep forever & wake up mechanical
in a body that makes decisions more easily.
a few houses down a neighbor's car turns
its light on. two bold eyes in the night.
i don't live at this house anymore & my car
does not drive itself. i am really in my bed 
in an apartment long away. i speak as if 
anyone can hear me & i go to the dark living room
& check out the window to see if there's any cars outside. 
no. none at all. no living cars taking themselves
on a nighttime drive. i pretend my old car
can hear my thoughts & i tell it to arrive here
& pick me up & drive me into a new frame.

the robots who suggest Facebook ads are just ghosts

the bar is crowded so we'll have to lean in 
to hear & misunderstand & misunderstand & misunderstand.
each voice a like of mallet on the wall or yes maybe
a bird caught in a hallway. we take out our phones
like you do when there's a lull in conversation 
& there might be something happening. something is always
happening & there's an article to read the title of.
a friend's mouth is moving but the room is so loud 
it's like there's no words coming out. i miss 
my bed room & i missing having a window. Facebook suggests
i buy a window & i know yes that's what i want
i want it right now. Facebook suggests yes i should buy
a very small night light just like the one i had
when i was six or seven years old-- the one in the shape
of saint mary glowing blue & mom plugging in
the night light & saying that i won't have to be
scared anymore. we don't have to be scared anymore.
my smart phone knows who i am & this proves to me
that maybe i am knowable. that maybe there are 
formulas floating around under my skin. or yes 
the truth is i've always thought that maybe 
there's a sea of ghosts working long hours
to pick the right ads that i want to see. i get one
about discount hotels in new jersey. i want to leave
this city i want to lay on the ocean. no i want
to go farther. i get an ad for the rocket to mars
& i scroll past. yes they know me too well.
no i can't go that far. i want small actionable items.
a rainbow tooth brush. a trans flag. 
yes my phone sees me. face recognition. this isn't
a poem about disconnection. the room is loud
i told you & there are items to make me feel 
more tangible. an electric tooth brush.
a pair of soft pajamas. download a new design program.
i want to design a new skeleton. the ghosts
are passing me notes. they're saying 
we know you need this & i do need all of this.
not just the items, but the attention. the ghosts 
endless working to find what i need. in the room
we're all sitting with our ghosts & the haunting 
is thick in the air. i speak a word aloud
& it turns into a screen. a brilliant lovely screen.
i text the person across from me that i love them.
she loves up & smiles, puts her foot on top
of mine underneath the table. the ads tell me to buy
her something beautiful. the ghosts perch like
eagles on our heads. my mouth is full of light
so i don't open it & the room thrums until we leave
& step out onto the open street where silence rushes
long & black as the asphalt. 

i still have to learn how to play guitar again

i fill my old guitar case with thumb tacs & 
strips of gum. stipes of gum are crawling
across my body. there are animals that want
to live here. the raccoon who rubes his hands together
like a theif. my ferris wheel is whirling inside me.
this machine of noise. i want to play guitar again
one day but i keep selling the instrument--
it keep turning into quarters. i pay for my body 
in quarters--three down my throat. i want to sleep
in the guitar case but i'm scared it will become
a coffin what with the rigid sides & the latch.
i carry the case on the train & the ghost
of the guitar sits in the seat across from me.
no one believes me & they sit all over him.
i cry about their sitting. i cry about my own
skeleton. i have friends over & the ferris wheel
tells me to throw myself in front of a train.
i tell that machine that i can't 
because i still have to learn how to play guitar again.
trembling. fireworks under my tongue.
filling the guitar case with trash & hoping
it will form a musical body. i crumple up papers
of bad ideas & stuff them in the guitar case.
i need to bury the guitar case in the ocean
where it can become a wreck & beautiful fish
can make their homes in my ferris wheel.
the creaking of metal. the thumb tacs
spilling into the water. somewhere that guitar
is playing himself--the rusted E string
corroding a finger down to the bone. i want to sleep
long enough so that the earth heals over
like a great big scab-- red martian terrain.
the guitar swallowing music swallowing ocean 
swallowing metal. stomach for quarters.
the scurrying of change. money is money is money.
no one likes you. no one wants to sit inside your
guitar case. what do you want with a word?
stuff your words in to the couch. a fire 
on the windowsill. friends in the living room
covering their eyes-- covering their ears--
they don't see me they don't hear me.
i climb into the guitar case & the tacs dip into my skin
like paint brushes. i miss being a student.
i miss closing the lid & hearing the guitar sing.
where did he go where where. i wish for a pocket large enough
to hold a whole guitar. i wish for the ferris wheel 
on a tuning peg. there is a place to rest 
& it is in my guitar case. the sound of turning.
the sound of tight orange. they're talking about me.

a description of the moment before you see the ocean

1.
the car ceiling is made of foam.
pressing upwards our hands go through
& dip into the blue outside like finger paints.

2.
remembering a story a friend told about
a boy who brought her sea shell after sea shell
saying nothing. a pile of sea shells at her feet.
stepping on sea shells.

3.
eight years ago i was floating
facing the unpeeled sun while it tried
to make a fireplace of my skin.

4.
skipping a stone & watching that hardness
become part of the folding. mom folding towels
on her bed. a friend folding her laundry 
on the ground of a dorm room.

5.
saying we should drive to the ocean 
when really i mean i'm tired & i want to see
the end of the earth.

6.
taking a drinking glass to the air.
gulps of salt. taffy coming in through 
the car window. a collective chewing.

7.
i lay in bed & sometimes my blankets mimic 
the motion of waves--they lap my body.
the fan moves them like a breeze
over water. there are bird wings 
in the room. there are deeps blues.

8.
my mom knitted me a dress from a sunset once.
she sat down on the porch & pulled yarn
from those spilled colors. i put the dress on
in a temporary room that smelled like july
& we drove towards the sand.

9.
like throwing a drinking glass against a wall.
like smashing an ice cube with a stone fist.
like clutching sand in both fists.
like asking the sun to come back when it's too late.
like bare feet bare feet.

10.
someone tells us to keep our eyes closed
so we walk with our arms outstretched
feeling for the nearby depth. the call 
of a glistening world. 
weep for ourselves & all the other gill-less animals. 
holding our breath.

the danger of crossing 

prehistory in her face.
we found a snapping turtle 
in the middle of the road. dad explained 
you pick up a turtle by its tail as he maneuvered
around behind the animal. i stood on the other side
as trucks drove around dad & the turtle.
the grass was bright green & full of dew.
it wet my feet in my sandals & i wanted to know
how the turtle could be so unaware 
of the danger of crossing. i don't see my dad
much anymore but i do call him on the phone.
he tells me he's tired. i tell him i'm
doing wonderful because i don't want 
him to be another vessel for my sadness.
i think of the turtle with alligator 
in her eyes & reptile around her ankles.
the glare she had at dad for trying 
to lift her safely to the other side. 
the double yellow lines lay like broken strings.
i wonder if he's come across another 
snapping turtle. i wonder if he'll go down 
to the creek with my brother today.
are there turtles in autumn? 
or do they go to sleep? the deliberate nature
of her blinking. the eyelids of a monster.
her short tail & dad gripping it tight
to fling her near where i stood.
she snapped & the closing of her mouth
sounded like horse hooves on asphalt.
she looked at me. a deep burning stare
& i stepped back away from her
terrified that she would bite. her gaping 
mouth. the human pink of her tongue.
i tell dad that i am doing great.
i'm doing so perfect. he talks about 
money like it's a snapping turtle--
ancient & unpredictable-- ready to snap
& remove a finger or two. i stood in the grass.
turtle shuffled away toward the stream.
grey & rock-like. dad continuing his instructions
give him space & we climbed back into 
his jeep & i never asked why he thought
the turtle was walking toward
the other side so i have been left
to consider this myself. no i don't want science.
i want the turtles to think as humans do. 
the turtle yes have to see the whirling cars.
yes have to know that it could die crossing.
maybe though this pull into peril 
is not so strange & so animal.
dad standing there laughing as he lunged 
to grab the snapper's tail. dad sitting on 
a bench by the creek. dad driving the jeep
with the rusted out frame. i'm calling him
& i'm still standing in the dew soaked grass
on a morning in April. a car rushes by.

i pick small objects from my dog's mouth:

a paperclip, a thumb tac, a knot of hair.
i reach between small white teeth and 
underneath her tongue. i wonder about
her desire to eat small dangerous things.
i crawl on all fours with her & we walk out
early in the morning while the sun 
in blue & orange
& the sounds of doors closing
echo in the distance. how will i teach her
how to use a mouth when i haven't mastered 
my own? i kiss a window. i eat a 
knob. i swallow a few earrings. 
i tell her that it's hard 
for creatures like us.
that we crave what does not belong 
in our jaws. 
as she walks she presses her nose
to the ground & the ground is so gentle
& it allows her inspection. 
grass damp in the morning.
it is almost october & soon we will lick frost
off our fingernails. 
i tell her i am sorry 
for being demanding. for asking 
that she listen more than an animal 
is capable. i once told Jack about my fear
of sleeping through a whole day. he laughed.
this morning i am tired & i want to 
eat wads of hair 
& have a larger animal 
pull each strand out from between my teeth 
telling me that i need to survive. 
i want that kind of protection. Benny was pacing
last night with a thumb tac in between her teeth 
& she set it on the counter. i played with the tac 
between my fingers 
before placing it in the drawer.
my dog begs for sharp objects & she wants
to chew on cigarette filters & i want 
to gnaw them with her. sometimes i wonder
what would happen if i just let her 
do whatever she desired. let her eat 
the trinkets of garbage. what does 
she want with them? she falls asleep again
& i bite down on a tac to show her 
how to hold it without cutting 
your gums.

the afterlife for gnats 

in the kitchen we fill a cup 
with apple cider vinegar to catch gnats. 
i sit by the trap to watch 
each speck struggle in light amber liquid.
i can't pin point where the gnats are coming from.
i inspect all my fruit: the bananas still greenish
around their foreheads, the acorn squash thick & sturdy,
the single peach's skin not yet soft to the touch.
i start to think of the gnats as ghosts & 
i imagine them entering through the walls--
their tiny bodies pressing themselves into 
this world. i tell the gnats this apartment
is important to me, you have to understand.
by which i mean this apartment is where i live
& i won't be haunted again. maybe then they roll
like periods, like endings, from beneath the front door.
maybe they mean no harm-- just want company
like all ghosts do. i tell the gnats i have
been a ghost just several days ago & that
i will be a ghost again. the gnats go on 
lapping up the vinegar. what sounds does it make
in their mouths? a whole mouth fit into 
a dot. they must not eat very much. no matter
how many die in the vinegar they keep coming back.
in moments of anger i slap them from the air 
& wipe their red splotch off on my thigh--
smash their endings on my wall 
their ghosts returning to somewhere 
in the ceiling.
maybe the afterlife for flies 
is in my house.
i wonder how i could 
make them more comfortable.
doesn't everyone deserve that?
i could fill the room with dying fruit 
or maybe just keep each trash bag open 
in the living room. a circus of smell.
a part of me knows this is wrong that these
are gnats-- that it is their purpose 
to take three bites then vanish 
but i want to be a good host.
i know what's it's like to have a small skull.
to be easily vanished.
to be a type of punctuation.
to own a see through abdomen. 
look at the organs-- 
only enough red
to burst a moment.

electric factory 

you show me a trick where you 
stick a light bulb in your mouth 
& it blares neon bright-- 
filament sputtering & sparks.
you say we're all made of electricity 
but i stick a fork in a wall socket 
& nothing happens.
my body is quiet. i try putting batteries
under my tongue. i try an extension chord.
you touch me with all your static. my hair
stands on end. 
goosebumps all over my skin.
call me a good conductor. a metal ready
for the charge. it won't thunderstorm 
again this year but i go outside anyway 
under the grayish clouds & ask to be
turned into something alive.
i have this memory of watching men
fix the wires outside my old house--
they had to lay down mats of rubber
& even with the mats they were still
getting shocked-- i could see 
the static-- miniature lightening bolts.
i feel you three rooms away.
you are the right kind of pain.
a throbbing that can't be placed.
i install a lightening rod down my back
for your to play with-- climb up & down.
who should i tell that i'm in love
with an element? 
that i love your static & nothing else.
we turn off all the lights in the house
& you ask me to hold out my arms.
great bolts leap from you to me.
we make a circuit. you feed me wires
& i bite through the copper.
the texture of rubber. how rubber
ultimately is the only thing that saves me--
the only thing between us. where does 
your body start? i grab hold of your hair
& say to myself yes this is
another human. lightening 
invites itself inside-- 
doesn't ring the door bell. electricity 
sits at the kitchen table charging 
all the utensils with sparks. 
i tell myself i love this sensation.
i tell myself i want to be
part of your mouth--
a knot of shock 
& thrumming.
i want that all over my house.
i want you in the walls
& the door knobs. 
make me feel like
i'm not an animal. 
you put the light bulb in my mouth now.
bright orange scream casting
scabbed shadows. you put one
in your mouth too.