puncture / extract 

i'm removing thumb tacs
from my walls-- finger nail prying
under each silver rim-- 
a stoic mushroom--a sharp root--
clinking like a jar of teeth 
as i collect them in a mug
on my desk. i have been
taking inventory of all 
injuries i've made to this apartment. 
from where i stand
the holes left by each thumb tac
are just barely visible
& if the wall was a sheet
of skin the holes would heal 
before the day is over.
i imagine pressing thumb tacs
into my thighs to hang photographs
& posters-- the shine of each 
silver cap like glinting 
individual scales. i'm taking
apart my room & walking closer
to the wall so that i can try
& peer into the thumb tac holes--
a periscope-- a hallway--
as if maybe one day i might
be small enough to crawl 
into these punctures
on my hands & knees--
safe in the miniature.
i pick the tacs out of
my leg-- i'd be a wonderful wall
with two windows on my shins.
blood trickles from thumb tac holes
across the wall of my room.
i take a napkin & wipe each wound--
telling the wall that there's
only a few more thumb tacs
to remove-- 
that i'm leaving in a few days
& it can take time to scab
over without me.
i show the wall my own legs--
a willow tree of blood
& the small me hiding
inside the wall 
is caught in scab--
sealed into drywall.
there he will teach himself
to write stories
only in his head until
he remember nothing of 
being a human who hung 
images on the walls of his 
room to make it feel more like
a home-- until he is a 
puncture of stories. i leave
him there because i must--
i cup my hands & hold a pile
of thumb tacs
as if they were my teeth
as if they were another 
kind of organ--
i hold them just 
to tempt their spires.
the bare walls grow taller
& i leave them to jewel-over
with maroon scab

field of tiny houses:

square windows turning
into pixels-- screen 
i press my finger into
until it widens & i can enter--
every image wants 
to be given something--
wants to be fed
your skin & your fingers--
maybe even just an eyelash
i dip my hands into all the photographs 
in my parent's house--
touching the faces of us
as if we're still lives--
bowls of apples-- 
statue families:
try to get each figure 
to blink. there's a chandelier 
of tiny houses--
porches in all directions--
trying to climb into a tiny house 
while it hangs above
our dining room table-- how
all chandeliers 
ask to be scaled--
i have always looked 
at our ceiling as if the house 
will flip its poles 
& the ceiling will be
the floor & the chandelier 
will wilt-- 
a great willow--
each petal of a tree: the curtains
of all these tiny houses
blowing apart. 
the thing about tiny houses 
is we all build them
& they're all just flowers 
& they're all just 
television boxes--
build them 
in living rooms
in refrigerators
on pillows
as if one day we will
be able to fit our whole self
inside & stay there--
turn on the light & become
a glimmering pixel 
in some other image--
pace the tiny world & 
occasionally look out
the window to see
the whole field of tiny homes--
each person staying safe inside
their own square--
i build tiny homes
in the bath tube--
in the sink-- on lover's 
backs while they sleep
hoping they will get up
& destroy the house
so i can blame them.
if one day i am gone-- please
pick me out of the chandelier
unfold the tiny home:
a jewelry box 
pluck me out &
wear me as a window

another limb 

a man flourishes a saw, 
cuts the arms of a red maple
back from the telephone wires 
again-- limbs falling to the street &
turning immediately into ghosts--
thin twisted figures who 
saunter aimless for a few moments
before they get their bearings.
they try to understand themselves
severed loose from 
the tree's body. the chattering
saw asks me to watch
as his man works-- the care
as he presses the machine 
into thicker & thicker places
on the maple's body. i wonder
if i'm the only one who 
notices how this tree is 
a collection of questions--
a knot of phantoms. i want
to ask what it is the tree
plans to do with the telephone wires--
if the tree might wrap
its gnarled fingers 
around the electric threads
to play cat's cradle
or maybe just to be 
one step closer to ripping
off a piece of sky. i also
want to rip off a piece
of sky. i should ask the tree 
if it's resentful about the small
bit of soil it stands in:
the sidewalk a thick skirt
around its waist--
& the tree limb ghosts
disperse-- not looking back
as if they intend to never
return to the maple now
that they've been cut loose--
some turn into birds & perch 
in rafters-- some stay humanesque 
& sit on stoops-- others climb
the telephone poles as if 
they were acrobats,
all the while the man with
the saw doesn't notice,
just keep dipping his device  
into the bark-- a spattering
of wood dust-- the snap
of another limb--
i think for a faint
moment that maybe 
that's where i came from--
that maybe i was a tree limb 
trying to grab telephone wires--
the man with the saw pressing
into my torso-- a kind of division--
maybe i wanted to hold the wire 
in an attempt to hear
voices that might 
clamor inside-- maybe i,
like the maple i watch--
might have also just wanted 
to get closer to dipping
my fingers into sky,
tearing a hunk down--
i would hold that piece 
close & show no one.

fried zucchini 

listing foods we hate
you say beef jerky
lemon desserts & jello cups.
i like all three of those 
& i imagine 
a pantry only full of beef jerky
lemon desserts & jello cups--
a diet comprised of only those foods--
a family around a table, plates
piled with only beef jerky
lemon desserts & jello-- they pull
the jerky apart with their fingers.
yes then the grocery stores only
with those items-- three aisles.
i don't imagine this to be mean,
i'm just thinking about how
food is a kind of unspoken identity.
you ask me what foods i hate 
& i can't think of anything 
besides fried zucchini-- just
saying fried zucchini
conjures a folded white paper towel
by the side of skillet
oil hiss, scrap of a spatula--
this afternoon my boyfriend's dad 
was making fried zucchini before dinner 
& everyone was saying how 
wonderful fried zucchini is & how i needed
to try it & how once i ate one
slice i wouldn't be able to stop--
i put the one piece in my mouth,
pressing my teeth down into 
the crisp flesh. i told them
all i loved it & in the bathroom 
pressed a piece of toilet paper
to me mouth-- feeling guilty 
that i'm the kind of person 
with the luxury of not liking
a certain kind of food. 
maybe i deserve a grocery store
full of fried zucchini & 
families of people at the end
of each aisle telling me
that i should love it--
that this food is the most 
delicious of all foods. 
i'm sitting at a table with
you at a candle lit restaurant 
& we're feeding each other
these terrible foods: a forkful
of red jello wiggling as
i place the fork between your lips--
a hot slice of fried zucchini
landing between my teeth--
in this scene we eat & eat
until we don't hate the foods
anyone-- that's so American isn't it?
to fill yourself up 
with the things you hate
in the hopes that 
it will change you--
i'm buying zucchini 
& slicing it thin, 
eating the pieces raw
& green--

RED

i traced the OPEN sign
through the shop window
leaving my finger-print smudge 
on the glass like the tracks 
of a sliding creature. there's a
little market a block from my house
that never turns off their OPEN
sign no matter the hours-- store
dimly lit i come to peer inside--
to wonder what the OPEN sign
might mean there--it's halo-ing red
refracting through the glass--
the whine of its glow. it makes 
me consider hanging an OPEN sign
in the window of my home-- if maybe 
leaving it there would be some 
kind of good omen-- a promise
to be alive & blaring. i hang 
an OPEN sign around my neck 
& try to go to sleep 
with it's buzzing-- some sort
of language insect. toss &
turn with the OPEN sign--
a second OPEN sign 
in the window & another one
still in the refrigerator.
people come up to the windows 
of my home-- not neighbors--
strolling people. They come
to stare inside my house
just like i go to stare
in that shop window & 
name the candy bars i can 
see on the counter: Twix,
Reeses, Crunch-- they 
take inventory of
books & sweaters draped
on the back of chairs-- they 
lay claim to objects they would
take if the door would ever
actually open, all the while
from my bed i roll over
& over again with the sign 
around my neck. i imagine just
me standing where that store is--
the building leveled & 
the wandering night-people
coming to peer into me.
what kind of items would
they see in me? i need more
OPEN signs. i think they need
to be everywhere. i imagine
a world with OPEN signs handing 
from telephone wires-- birds
with OPEN signs hanging from
their nests-- me opening
my mouth to show a passerby
the OPEN sign glimmering
all the way at the back 
of my throat. i want 
to talk with it in my mouth
& say something profound
but i have nothing. i go back
to the shop window &
press my nose to the glass
with the OPEN sign scowls 
at my persistence. i thank
the OPEN sign for telling 
us so much.

types of knife blades:

serrated, santoku,
boning, bird's beak, paring
fingernail, fire wood,
the swing set that buried itself,
the smell of cold rain
sharpening itself into my shoes,
a bottle cap, a falling of bottle caps
from somewhere high up, the moon
visible in the afternoon, hair ties,
a light switch blinking 
back/forth, a wrong pillowcase
a strand of jupiter color hair,
your tongue across my chest--
slicing me open: beautiful fish,
guppies, sardines, school bells 
somewhere all metal, sirens
chirping/ pretending to be birds,
birds--all the birds-- all their beaks
opening/ cutting craft paper,
the cruelness of April,
saying "i want to die" but really
just wanting to dissolve,
saying "i want to live" but
really just out of curiosity 
about how many colors pleated skin
can make in the aftermath 
of a knife-- more for the list
syringe, thank yous, refrigerator,
falling asleep, forget everything,
a ripe staircase, a righteous lamp,
the floor of someone else's bedroom
where you pressed me down--
all the scars on my back,
all the scars on my chest,
all the emptiness of the word
scar because you think it's 
metaphorical, needing a better
word for "scar" : fissure, cleft,
breach, ravine, rift, rupture--
a bracelet swallowed, a finger
tracing across your chin--
look at me severing you--
we sharpen each other's knives
with our bodies-- the way skin 
in a greedy surface, the way skin
is asking to aperture,
the way the floor is
a type of knife 
and so are we

not other's tongues 

who hasn't eaten 
their whole tongue before
while they were asleep?
that night hunger
that demands swallowing 
it grows back
of course but slowly
i open my mouth 
in the mirror 
a blank room 
all those back rows
of teeth i'm not
used to seeing
little off white rocks 
as if there's a shoreline
i didn't know about
in the back of my throat
i think about cow tongues 
in the case at the butcher shop
& fields full of cows 
without their tongues
they open their mouths 
to each other as if to ask
the other cows if 
someone is really eating
their tongues tonight
i eat my own tongue 
not other's tongues 
though one time i was
kissing a boy & he bit
my tongue which i thought 
was strange & for a moment
i wondered what that would
be like to feed someone else
a piece of my body
if, he might, like a dog
scarf the limb down
if the blood would pool
in my mouth
yes that's where the ocean 
would come in
the blood would just
go out into the ocean 
spilling over the teeth-rocks
he didn't of course
he just bit the tongue
i'm the one eating here
& i'll spend today 
checking my mouth
& waiting for the tongue
to start re-growing
a tiny little 
tongue-bulb pushing
up from the soil bottom
of my mouth 
drink water 
whisper kindnesses
to the tongue 
i tell the tongue
i'm sorry for what
i do in my sleep 
but that in our sleeps
we're not really responsible
for what we do
that's someone else
who sleeps for us
& conjures our strange dreams
of tongues moving
across the ground 
like fat worms
i give the tongue
sunshine & open my mouth
to the back window where 
the beams sneak in 
i tell the tongue
i'll try not to do it again 
& my yard fills up with cows
all without tongues 
come to warn my tongue
not to grow back
i tell the cows to hush
i tell the cows i need 
at tongue
even though i know i'll
bite it off again
it's body falling
perpetually past the rocks 
& into the ocean

yes of course
yes of course
yes of coarse 
please yes it's no problem
it's no problem at all
i want that yes 
i'm sorry i'm sorry
yes whatever works best for you 
yes i want whatever works best
yes this is what i want
yes i don't mind
yes it's up to you
yes don't worry don't apologize
it's fine
yes it's no problem 
yes it's 
yes yes yes
it's fine it's fine
it's fine granules of salt
all hush yes in a jar
on the counter
yes it's fine sand 
coming out from under my tongue 
i think it's fine
it's whatever you want
yes please come lay down here 
yes this is a bed 
i've cut wide open
i'm yes enough for
all negatives to turn silt
i'm yes enough 
to erase all ache
if i yes to you hard enough
i can become a beautiful 
shadow a mask 
you can put on &
i'll say
yes with your own mouth too

butterfly stroke  

pantomime wings 
in the cement bowl
i whittle my legs into 
the thin stalks that birds use
i move my arms as if to swim
the breast stroke 
in the pool by 
the train tracks
emptied 
for winter

some monster 
traveling across bone
clacking past

as i pretend there's
water in the pool & the ghosts
here give me swim lessons

they say 
this is what
the water here 
used to smell like
they say 
now back stroke 

& i lay face-up 
on the hard floor
as grey water starts 
to trickle from a cloud above 
an overcast 
pitcher hovering

ready to fill up the basin 
i am ready to be 
a swimmer again

i took lessons
as a little girl & the pool
was ripe blue & the swim instructor 
would tell me the number 
of laps to swim by holding 
up his fingers

his fingers 
turning webbed 
& orange-- a duck
a duck taught me how 
to swim not in a pool
but in a lake 

the difference between
a pool & a like is probably
the placement of ghosts

lakes get ghosts 
on the banks & pools are
filled with ghosts 
regardless of water

i swim here because 
someone has to come take up
space in an empty pool 
because i have been haunted
by the rinds of fruit

because emptiness requires
a kind of swimming

i have been swimming 
so much lately 
a breaststroke across
the kitchen free style down
the street butterfly stroke
in the garden that is also
full of ghost water

so i came here to bring
all that swimming
get the swimming out of my body
& tell the ghosts here that
the water they know is real
just like the grey water
is real & the water i move
aside with my hands 

& the water that makes 
up my body-- i wonder 
if i will go empty
like the pool & if a girl
will find me & lay down
& take up space &
love the ghosts in me
till i fill with grey rain

birch tree 

feeding mulch 
to the red bouncy ball
as i cradled its roundness
to avoid playing with other kids
i pretended
all kinds of toys were my children 
who i had to take care of
sitting under the oak 
one pole of the playground 
i watched others
circling the birch tree
on the other side of 
the yard
their grub fingers
touching the bark 
their worm fingers pointed sometimes
like wriggling hooks
towards me 
the strange girl 
taking care of a recess ball
i drummed my own fingers
on the surface 
of the red rubber ball
& spoke kind words
to creatures 
that might hover inside 
i promised this ball it would 
not be used for four-square 
i would keep
this one object safe
until the animal
decided to come out
i'm not sure if i believed it
was really going to burst
open one recess 
or if i just wanted 
something to take care of
i would imagine myself 
as the creature
inside the red rubber ball 
a kind of endless womb 
where a i would feel myself 
the outside me still
sitting in the school yard 
drum gently on the walls 
& i would spin inside 
something cosmic 
in that deep maroon skin 
i would stay there 
& never come out 
hearing the other kids
through a thick layer 
of rubber
their voices warbling 
from being passed through
that ripe barrier
& under the tree i pressed
the ball close to me 
& told the nothing creature
that it would be alright
that some day it would 
rupture open 
the me inside the ball 
paced in circles until
she was tired & laid 
to rest on the bottom
i rested my head on 
the red bouncy ball
& tried 
to listen deep enough
to hear whatever
something inside
the ball speak 
back to me
i by from the birch tree
took a fist full
of mulch & tossed it
at me saying
eat this!
& i pretended this 
was a kindness & 
i thanked him 
fed the mulch to my red rubber ball
& the ball ate gladly