edible 

a real house
has an ice cream scoop
in the utensil drawer.
we had two & i would take
one in each hand &
dig in the earth outside
in search of antiques
from the civil war 
or the revolution. i wasn't
sure what an antique would look like 
but i new that one needed
to dig to find one.
i practiced my technique 
to get the dirt to come up
in dome-like scoops. if we had
a box of cones i could 
hand out dirt ice creams.
instead i just tossed 
the soil all over
a splattering of earth.
antiques looked up at me from 
their burrows & i rubbed 
my fingers together like
you might for a cat 
to try & get them to come out.
i was determined.
i was going to give these
antiques to my dad who 
loves antiques. he might even 
pile them on a metal tray 
in the oven & make an antique dinner,
filling the house with the smell
of roasting old book pages.
i feed the antiques
from the ice cream scoops,
dollops of frozen yogurt.
i bring them my favorite flavor,
black raspberry & it's melty 
in the heat of the afternoon.
i wonder what the antiques 
when they're alone with each other
& i realize i'm probably disturbing them.
do you ever want to put something
back together when it's 
way too late? do you ever 
dig holes in the yard & try
to put the soil back. i think about
how in the graveyard up the street
you can always tell which plots 
are fresh because they look 
like trays of brownies. the dirt 
has always been chocolate ice cream
which is my least favorite so
i don't think this information
is especially helpful. the antiques 
cry & dig themselves back
where they came from
while i use the ice cream scoop
to swing at passing comets.
what do comets have to do
with a kitchen? if you leave
the window open they'll fly
right in & hatch. a comet
hatching into screws. trying
to close the window 
when it's too late,
trying to scoop the dirt
when it's too late,
it's already melting.
i find ice cream scoops 
in place of my forearm bones.
i use ice cream scoops 
to dig in the fresh plots
at the graveyard. fill a bowl
with soft warm brownie.
pull up the
coffin full of antiques
& spill it on 
the kitchen floor for when
dad gets home. 
i'll say 
look what i brought us.

starting a family

of the oak trees
all i can say is that they 
were also wondering if there's
anything sturdier than 
a bag of dusty onion
at the bottom of a kitchen cabinet.
i know my parent's house
is real because when i look for
a jar of raspberry jam 
i find them, the onions,
lazy in all different stages
of peeling. i tell the onions
that they should come
lay on the floor of my house
& gossip about other vegetables
with me. i don't use onions,
not because i have anything against them,
but because i don't actually cook.
the onions make fun of me
& they hiss saute saute saute.
i take one & put it in my pocket 
to quiet the rest. i tell the onion
i will take it home & make 
a wonderful feast out of 
nothing else, just the onion.
on my kitchen table 
the onion 
removes small sections of 
its flaky brownish covering,
tossing the flecks at me.
i tell the onion to wait
while i get ready. i imagine
the onion sliced into 
lovely perfect rings, translucent 
in the bottom of the pan 
sparkling with oil. 
i will get into the pan with 
the onion, wearing the slivers
like hula hoops.
on the hard wood floor of the kitchen
i hear onions rolling,
a distinct kind of thump.
then, i hear them in my pantry 
banging their skulls on the doors.
there's a 7 year old version 
of me standing on a stool 
at the counter & he-she is crying 
as she presses the knife down
on the onion & his-her mom 
tells says it's unavoidable 
to cry when you chop onions.
i bite the onion on the counter
& in the hopes that it might
make me cry but it doesn't.
instead the onion itself cries,
shaking & sobbing as i hold it.
i tell the onion i'm sorry 
for not having patience with it.
i tell the onion i should have looked
up a real recipe. i ask the onion 
if i could bring its friends next time
a whole bag & if they could please
lay on the floor of my bed room
just to talk all through the night,
tell me stories about the circles 
in their bodies.
tell me if they wish they grew
on the tall oak trees 
that peer in the window judging us
& the ways we make do.
tell me what they think makes 
a real house.

put me inside a light bulb tonight 

beside me
at the park, is nothing 
but folding cool wind
& the chirps of distant animals.
i watch
from a picnic table as
a girl scales a lamp post,
spoon in her mouth.
dusk is coming like a bowl
full of overripe tangerines.
citrus melts in lobes.
i don't tell the girl to get down
because that sort of advice
is often not wanted.
i observe as she reaches the top
of the lamp post
& smacks her spoon 
on the glowing light bulb 
releasing a small bright bird.
the bird darts away 
into the shimmering branches 
of an oak tree.
the trees sing a low hum
to welcome the shadows 
into their hair & the shadows
are good kind creatures
who go to the park to sleep. 
i don't know why i go to the park
& i ask the tree but
they're busy.
the shadows don't notice me 
as they come out to snatch 
the glass of the bulb,
breaking it into pieces
to share among themselves.
i don't know why i have 
to go to the park at night 
i contemplate eating
a bit of glass to see
if i belong in the wild branches
of the oak tree. stretch out
my hand & a shadow drops 
the glass sliver.
the glass cuts my tongue
& i spit out the shard.
the shadows scold me
for being wasteful.
i tell the shadows i want
to be one of them. 
the bright bird comes back
& i remember the girl had
been here too
& i pace the walkways 
until the sun is so deep 
in the sand box 
there's little to see
beyond each remaining lamp.
i wonder if breaking open
the light bulbs was something
she taught herself
or if perhaps she learned 
it from a shadow or maybe 
just happened to witness
one light bulb break. 
i spend a moment in 
each lamp's glow 
to tell the bird i'm thankful
for its work in the park.
i tell the birds that if 
i could i would crawl into the light bulb
& be bright &
contained while 
they did whatever they wanted
in the dark branches 
of the oak trees.

tree swing

on my back
a tree grows & i tell
someone to tie a swing
to one of its branches.
yes, pick a good sturdy branch.
maybe the limb stretching toward
the neighbor's house
as if to pat the house
on it's head,
good dog good dog 
the tree is saying. 
my brother spends
all summer swinging
& doesn't even realize
it's me, his brother
beneath the tree.
his bare feet collect 
the yard's dirt.
he tries to go higher
& like all young boys
imagines that he will
be the one child
to swing higher than
any has before. possibly
touch a toe to the sky
which he knows feels like
kitchen tile.
maybe he thinks
by swinging he might be able
to shake the tree 
loose from the dirt &
free from my back. i curl 
under the earth 
like an aquifer or a seed
of which i am both 
or neither. 
some days he doesn't swing.
he just sits there 
dangling. those days
are my favorite. i feel just weight,
not his body'd weight but
the weight of all the wants
buried deep in his body.
i want to tell him 
to be careful of letting
trees grow where they want.
i think about my first tree swing
& how it was tied to 
my father's arm. 
i swung & swung &
it was me, i was the boy 
who grazed against 
the sky with my toe or
maybe that was just a steady breeze.
at night i adjust myself
& thus the branch rustle & 
the birds in them beg someone
to untie the tree swing.
the animals think it's unnatural
the animals wish humans would develop
better means of communication.
the cardinals burrow in the dirt 
with me & the squirrels hang upside down
by their toes. each day i tell myself
i'll leave but he loves the swing
so much. i try turning into 
water. i try turning into 
soil. i try turning into 
another swing. the tree stretches 
its arm even further towards
the neighbor's house 
as if to try & steal the doorknob
to their house. i say 
no, stay
to the tree & the tree
crosses it's arms & my brother 
comes out in the morning to find
the tire swing 
limp on the ground & goes to
bury the remnants 
which end up in the dirt 
beside me.

dress-up box 

in between these two buildings
i search for lady bugs. 
i bring them baskets of tiny little clothes:
sun hats and white gloves 
and parasols. i play classical music,
a cassette stolen from 
my grandmother's totaled 
golden Oldsmobile before 
it went to car-heaven. i haven't 
found any lady bugs so 
i put the tiny clothing
on my hands & let my hands walk 
along the cool walls of the alley 
as if they're lady bugs. 
they amble gracefully,
an afternoon stroll. i tell
my hands that if they must
they can go ahead & become
lady bugs. i had wanted to find
the insects & ask them 
how they choose a particular
number of dots. i was going
to get to know them
with small talk so that 
i could work up to the big question
where i ask if they would
consider letting my hide
under their abdomen.
i imagine their red domes 
like a planetarium--
the night sky deciding
it wanted to try 
on red for a change. 
i would stay under there 
& everyone would ask 
where i went, not suspecting
that i might be right near by 
simply shielded by 
a lady bug. my lady bug 
hands love it here in
the shade. i watch them 
& tell them to be good
wherever they're off to.
i tell them to find 
some real lady bugs
& invite them over.
i imagine the lady bugs
all having an afternoon party
without me or my hands.
i imagine they probably invited
my grandmother's dead car 
out of pity for it,
being dead & all. i want
the lady bugs to have
pity for me but also
to think i'm ready
to live with them. 
i have practiced 
crawling the walls.
i have practiced holding
my chin up.
i say aloud "five"
that's the number 
of dots i'd have
on my back

what if the shells 
of snails are the hollow
skeletons of planets who
gave themselves over 
to smallness?
i offered again this summer 
to have my youngest brother, Joey,
stay over my house for a weekend, 
even though i know 
that it probably won't happen.
i take comfort in 
making offerings i
know no one will
take me up on. most often
this happens with my family.
i don't know what that says about me.
i remember when Joey first came home,
small and pink and scowling
like all babies do. he was 
snail scaling
the walls of our big messy house.
this morning Joey
and i both found snails
in damp shady nooks of the world.
i don't know this for sure,
it's just a feeling. i feel him
leaning done to peer 
at the intricacies of its 
soft body. mine
is a grove snail with a
yellow spiraling shell. he looks
out of place in the alley
beside a silver gum wrapper
and a freckling of moss. i tell him
my brother is visiting and
i love my brother but 
sometimes i don't know if
saying i love him is right
because there's so much 
i'm not sure i'll ever know 
about him. i feel Joey 
run his finger over the smooth
shell of his snail. occasionally 
i would help watch Joey and
people would always ask if he 
was mine. sometimes i played 
along. maybe because
i wanted to know what that 
feels like to have someone
tell you your baby looks
just like you or maybe 
i just thought 
it was easier that way.
about the snail shells 
and their planetary origins
i think that might just
have been something 
i came up with 
to comfort myself about my own
largeness. my life is so large 
and yet i only pretend to break 
it into pieces. i don't know
anything about Joey but 
i want to. do i want to?
yes, yes of course. we're brothers.
we want to know our brothers.
the snail he found was
a garlic snail. the snail 
he found had a deep amber shell.
the snail he found was a great
big huge planet, the kind
that smashes into other planets 
and smashes into houses.
yes, yes 
he does look like me.

hush

ask to be fed
& wait outside 
in the alley while
all the trees turn 
to black cherry soda.

from this view 
you might almost miss the sun 
as it straddles
the foreheads of buildings 
on your street. 

you feel the soda 
& you're hungry for it,
you want to drink 
the pits, the stems & all.

something is dripping
& a siren reminds you
that people get hurt even
on thursdays-- in fact
people die 
on thursdays.

the sirens collect bottle caps
& toss them at 
a brick wall.
they're probably working
to distract you
but you catch on.

somewhere the cap 
is being twist off 
the bottle & the bottle
is saying 
hush, hush.

the tree you loved
growing up-- the one
who's skin freckled
with caterpillars,
that tree,

plucks its roots
out of the soft rain-fresh earth,
leg by leg.

you follow it to see where
it's going 
& you find the tree
gathering friends & lovers,
coaxing their legs too 
free of the earth.

this isn't the first
time you've watched the trees
run bare but it seems
somehow different

& you trail behind till
you arrive at 
the bottling factory
where conveyor belts
of clear glass bottles
serve as shells for 
all kinds of plants
to run away to--

a potted fern 
becomes a bottle
of orange soda--
an orchid into grape soda.

the trees will be cherry soda
you know this because
this is the soda your father
always drank with a fist full
of ice in a 
sweating glass. 

you think again to the alley
leading to your house 
& imagine cherry soda 
instead of old rain water
trickling down the walls--
pressing your tongue 
to stone

eating stone,
just grazing the surface
with your teeth.

ask to be fed
& there is a bottle cap
being opened telling
your throat to hush 
hush.

you wonder what your 
father tasted in that black cherry soda--
if his bottles 
were also made of 
his favorite trees to sit under--
if he swished the carbonated 
nectar in his mouth 
or if he gulped.

carrying a case of the soda bottles
they clink & at first
you think the clinking
is your own bones.

you drink all the sodas
before going inside 
because you know you can't share
& then you plant the bottles
in the cobblestone ground,

telling the stones to 
be kind to whatever trees
might want to grow
in between these two buildings.

television sets 

to feed them 
my brother crumples 
the old red chalky bricks
in the yard.
he tends the snails
that scale his arms.
he talks to them softly
as they move their thin
antennae like soft little 
television sets.
the snails channel 
a radio broadcast
from at least thirty years ago
& the announcer is saying
something about 
the price of milk going up 
& my brother
thinks "who buys milk?"
& a half gallon of milk
materializes on the fridge door again.
my brother's snails are
garlic snails so they have
hard amber shells 
& they also enjoy 
garlic bread.
the snails have never actually
had garlic bread but they 
love the concept. 
the snails tell my brother 
to order them take out 
but my brother 
is too young to call for
pizza all by himself. 
next time i see my brother
i will have to tell him
that i also have snails
& that i have found it is best not
to feed them. once you
feed an animal like that
all they'll do is want more
& their broadcasts will
get so loud you can't hear
yourself think. my brother
is putting a finger to where
he guesses the mouth of the snail
might be & he's saying
shush there's nothing
more to say. 
the news gets louder
in the face of snail &
the snail shrinks away 
leaving just the shell
which looks like a single
hear phone. he's scared
but he knows he has 
to put the shell
in his ear. the snails
that bother me aren't
garlic snails-- they're cove snail
with a shell that's a spiraling
yellow. the spiral means that
the snail's soul
is falling somewhere 
deeper than here. 
i do try to tell
the snail i hope they 
climb out someday 
but snails tend to talk
over you with their 
swirling. my brother 
pluck the snails 
off his arms & sticks 
them to the walls of his
closet where he won't tell
anyone else they live.
they're a troubling bunch.
he avoids his room.
he avoids his clothes.
he hears their muttering
behind the closet door 
& wonders they the snails
come for him. they make
a low buzzing at night 
that actually does help
him sleep. it helps me sleep too.
the whole idea of sleep
was invented by snails 
who were tired to having
to talk to humans at night.
there is something loving
about them though 
i'm not sure what yet.
snails circle the rims
of all my bowls.
snails circle the faces 
of all my clocks 
snails tell me to 
buy televisions 
& radios & line them
all up along the wall
in perfect rows.
turn them all on at once
& let them talk. 
i won't feed them though.
i don't put up with that.
the phone is ringing 
& asking me if i would
like to order a pizza 
& some garlic bread.
i tell them no &
i hang up the phone
but before i can i realize
it's not a phone 
it's a crumbling 
brick. the snails swarm &
ask to be fed.

so you won't see it,
i construct a nest of worries
like i watch the small brown birds
assemble from stray garbage
on our street each day:
a bottle cap-- a twist tie--
a halved pink flower--
they're always gathering
& i wonder how many nests
they would be able to make 
&, then, how many 
i might be congregating
as well-- if i'm building
nests without noticing
& leaving them in the corners
of rooms & on the tops of
bookshelves. a crinkling 
of chirps-- those are 
all my worry children 
& no matter what i can't
feed them all. i cook a pot
of spaghetti like my mom did
when we were low on food
at the end of the week.
i pinch individual noodles between
my fingers like the necks
of orchids & i try to
feed all the tiny birds 
the emerge from my mouth
when i'm a knot of worried.
i walk the street outside
& weave plastic garbage bags
& stray flip flops 
into my hair to make
another nest up there 
so all my worry children have
a place to go if they 
come alive during the day
inside of in my home 
where they would have more
nesting options. i pick up 
quarters & feed them the shine
off of them & the nestlings
are still hungry. they stay
nestlings forever. i wish
someone would come along
& tell me i can be 
a nestling forever-- let me sleep
in a soft cluster of fibers
stolen from the sidewalk 
& tired trees that 
weld together my city. 
in the distance the train 
wakes up new birds--
some of them flightless
& i arrange stones 
on the floor for them.
i find a broken
phone charger & thread
it into my hair. 
when you find the nests 
which seems inevitable
i hope that you pretend
you don't see them--
i count them all over
the house before i can sleep
& i tell you that i'm
counting the number 
of angels i know--
i start 1, ... 2,...
3... 4... the birds love
this & they toss their
feathers like gum wrappers 
5... you ... 6 ask if
i have noticed the items
stuck in my hair ... 7
& i say no 8... not
while i'm counting ... 9
while i'm counting ... 10
nothing else exists 
but my nests 
i pull out the items
from my hair & collect them
in a basket at the bottom
of the closet 
you never open,
the closet no one else
can find, where all
the birds flock at night
& wait for my to get up
in the morning
to feed them

you always have such cold hands  

i make a better glass than a person.
pressing my cold hands to your skin,
you ask what kind of forest i am

& i tell you i am a forest made of glass.
a fun house mirror effect amplifies 
the birds, unless, maybe, inside me 

they have to be monstrous. 
i tell you to be careful where 
you walk because every surface 

is fragile-- which sounds cliche
but all the grass is capable of snapping 
& i don't want you to get glass 

in your foot. i love when no one
touches me because it forces me 
to remember all the felled trees.

i count their trunks & hang them
in the window as prisms. i sit on 
a limb in the shatter & i pray 

it doesn't snap. there are dead
trees & they are colder than me 
& i warm their hands under my shirt

like you do for me. i want to ask
you how you know you are happy
but instead i find a glass leaf 

& breathe on it till it fogs up.
you tell me 
you don't think you would like

to live in the glass forest.
i'm thinking of a basement full
of unanswered questions that slip

between conversations. i want to be
philosophical but really 
i just wish glass were a little bit

more like skin. i wish you
were see through & i could see
all the kind of birds in you: i'm guessing

swallows & cardinals. my mouth
is full of glass bird seed. my finger nails
are glass & two of them break-- 

they were also windows. you are pressing
your nose against the window of my pinkie
& telling me that we have 

so much to be happy about. i tell 
you i know we do &  i am happy:
the word "happy" comes out of my mouth

as glass because it's a lie.
not because i'm so sad, just because
the word never takes hold in me.

i drop the word into the forest:
so you won't see it.