avenue, avenue, avenue

i'll name all my children after street
& should it go the other way around:
streets after children. i live 
on an avenue which is supposed
to have trees on both sides but
there's no trees. i say the name aloud
"Avenue, Avenue Avenue!" i say 
it like i'm summoning something &
the trees start to grow from out
of the sidewalk, from in between cars:
their alarms go off so i hide inside,
i don't want anyone to know 
that i did that. i look from the window,
the trees strange & varied. all
different kinds of trees. it's really
just like naming a child, naming
a street. some people probably think
over it for hours, maybe they 
pace the street trying to get a feel
for what it should be called. there 
was a whole neighborhood where i grew 
up where all the streets were named 
after books in the bible. another was
named after breeds of birds. i prefer
the birds: blue jay way, oriole avenue,
condor street, pelican circle. i don't
think a street would ever want to be called
"Leviticus," but you never know. there are
strange streets just like there are
strange children. there are children
named all sorts of things like "trout"
& "john" i grew up on a
franklin street. i could go there
& say the name aloud, a prayer, pacing 
up the winding road. a boy might come,
a boy who the street was named
after or a street the boy was named after.
a ghost or otherwise he would walk 
with me & i would tell him 
that i don't think i will ever have
a street or children to name. maybe he would 
frown or maybe he would shrug,
unsure how to comfort a grown man.
if i were in the right state of
melancholy i might ask him to be
my son. he would, of course, run away or
maybe politely refuse. either way 
i would watch him walk himself
back into the "franklin" street sign, 
pressing his body against the metal poll until
he disappeared. returning home 
to the avenue, all the trees are 
gone, cut down by the neighbors.
i will rename the avenue, but only
for myself. i'm not telling
you it either. &, maybe if years
later i get asked to name 
a human i will tell them 
they are named after an avenue
that no one else knew 
the name of

toilet paper

i miss getting sick together 
as a house.

having a small body &
swallowing grape medicine

from tiny plastic cups.

we populated the carpet 
with wads of toilet paper
(never tissues)

like white carnations.

a field.

a fan blowing the petals.

windows cold 
to the touch. 

our hand prints.

mine bigger than yours.

i looked forward to 
the ache in my body

& the fever flickering
like a mouth holding

a candle. 

folded towels on foreheads.

me & you chewed

frozen 
buttermilk waffles

on the sunken in couch.

played the static 
TV channel.

there was no would outside
just us in our

sick bodies making

the house into 
an eco system.

steam from the shower
floating down the hall

& filling the upstairs.

the sun room: an angel
taking in as much

light as she could.

she asks god for 
us to never get better

for us to never go apart
in healthy bodies,

heavenly bodies are often
in the process of falling apart.

there will be soup 

in a pot on the stove.

italian wedding:
we get married 
to the cold we
all have, make veils
from toilet paper

chicken & stars:
at night we all look out 
my bed room window
& make pasta out of orion

tomato:
a whole vine in a pot.
we tell each other things
that we never do

like please help me

&

i'm tired 

& 

i don't want to die

&

i love you,
thank you so much.

picking the toilet paper
wads up from around my bed
& placing them

in the trashcan,

the flowers. 
a wedding 
is over, 

i tell them.

garbage island

i feed you chocolates
& when you leave to go home i pick
the wrappers out of
the trash, separate them & 
lay them out nice like pressed petals:
foil kiss, red kitkat dress, 
peppermint patty pillow case.

in the back yard i claw at the dirt
to press the wrappers into soil.
i want to grow a bed 
of peanut-butter cups: their bright
milk chocolate faces blinking
towards the neon light bulb sun.

yesterday you said again
"we live on garbage island," & 
all day i observed the flora
& the fauna. 

with binoculars i spotted
chip bags fluttering towards
the north shore, shiny & blue,
they must have been females.

i kept a list walking 
to the bus: gum slip, big gulp hat,
a bouquet of chewed straws.

i come to the one tree
on my street that cracks
the side walk: a tired oak.
tearing at the bark,
i want to know if the tree
is made of garbage too.
the wood comes off like 
a plastic wrapper, smooth & 
unnatural. inside: a trash bag liner
that i break open to find 
exactly what i knew was there:

sandwich suites & shriveled
apples cores & used up lighters.
all of it, so beautiful.

i crawl inside for the rest
of the evening diving 
dumpster deep in island. 

what would you think of me
if you discovered me there?
would you mistake me for 
a body of trash? i hope so
i hope so. 

this is how you take
off my dress, tear the corner,
toss it out the car window:
let the wind do it's work.
make an island. 

bags of goldfish

you bring home an average 
goldfish in a clear plastic 
bag. we buy a bowl & fill
it with those little multi-color
pebbles: pinks & teals. the stones seem
almost edible. in the middle of 
the night you get up to stare
at the goldfish, to watch him.
i find you again & again, 
legs crossed on the floor 
before the bowl. i stand
in the doorway, i let 
you have your time with him
& when you come back to bed
you turn to me & say that
he's lonely. that he circles
the bowl each day 
in search of another goldfish.
this sounds ridiculous to me.
i have also watched the goldish,
i've seen him try to nibble
on the aquarium stones,
his suction mouthing 
puckered around a hunk of
teal. you bring home more,
at first just another bag
like the first. this goldfish
has a feathery tail & we 
add her to the tank. they dance
with each other. we both
begin to believe they're
in love but you stay up
day after day, insisting that
we need more. more goldfish.
you plug the sinks & fill them
with water & then them goldfish.
the bath tub. every single glass
of water. i wonder what i've done
wrong. if i should have made
you come back to bed & not
watch the goldfish. the first
one made you do it. i worry
that you don't love me anymore,
that all you care about is
orange bodies & round glossy eyes.
i think that maybe i should
get rid of the goldfish
but instead i find the first
one. he's solitary in his bowl, again.
i tell him about the carnival,
how we tossed ping pong balls 
at tiny bowls to win fish.
it's a confession. he turns around
as if to say "you don't mean that,
you're not sorry."
i don't know if i'm sorry 
or not. i stand up. was
this always what you want?
one foot at a time i get 
into the bowl with him,
he wriggles around, writhing
until we both succumb to 
proximity. i circle the bowl 
& i think, "when she comes
home she will come 
to watch me."

the brains of animals 

a family friend texted me today 
asking, "do you remember me?"
& i thought how rare an occasion 
it is for someone to ask that &
if i've ever asked someone else
the same question. 
he came to all our holidays:
easter, christmas, thanksgiving.
we have never been extravagant people 
but him coming brought
a certain occasion. no one
visits for holidays now, it's
just us. calling him a "family friend"
feels wrong, formal & cliche.
who are all these people?
i don't want an address book:
i want a collection
to keep them in the living
room where i will spend each day
catching up, asking what their
favorite breakfast food is now
& if they've read a book this 
past year.
i wonder if there are people who
i wouldn't remember
if asked. would i pretend?
would i nod & say 
"of course, 
of course, holidays 
were nothing
with out you." how many people
can we keep in our heads?
i'm thinking of mugs &
teacups inside of skulls.
an animal cabinet.
i see all of them: the dolphin
with a great big mug
full of ocean textures
& smooth blue faces. 
the rat with a play tea set cup
spilling over with 
the last fives humans 
he passed in the subway. 
then there's the dragonfly
that flickers around
between May & June:
an ornate & beautiful cup, metallic
& multi-color
in his round insect head 
that he dips:
filling & re-filling with thoughts
about the different bushes outside
my parent's house and/or the trail
by the creek. 
would he ever have
room for me if i were to make
enough impression on him?
if i were to go out each day,
extend my hands & let him 
explore across my skin. 
his limbs:
walking wishbones, 
the wind 
blowing him over, spilling
his aluminum memories across 
a patch of grass.
i go outside to find 
a whole tea set on
the side walk. i take 
the set inside & keep 
it for myself. 
more memory 
for me.
had it belonged
to the dragonflies?
to the ants? the moths?  
and so, i told him "yes, yes of
course i remember you,
holidays were nothing
without you,"
but felt wrong, simplistic.
the limits of a text message,
are what kind of betrayal?
i sat thinking of the cordial
cherries he used to bring
for holidays & the book he
got me maybe eight christmases
ago that i still have never read.
i take one of the tea cups
& pack it in bubble-wrap,
sending it away to him.
i want to write
at the bottom of the cup
about the brains of
animals but i feel like
he might not understand.
maybe someday he'll find
some use for the cup. 
i write names on slips
of paper, dropping them inside 
of mine. this is futile though,
they always turn into 
dragonflies. 

ear buds

i resorted to
buying bags of seeds:
pumpkin & sunflower & tulip
& azalea: laid them all
out on my desk to examine 
my options on any given night.

the soil in my skull,
a terracotta pot,
a planter by a window.

i tilted my head
to drop that night's seeds 
in my ears. this isn't
a metaphor for drugs.

i really did this,
everyday. i needed to.
haven't you ever wanted
to feel roots around 
your jaw?

headphones in, blurting
Green Day & Sex Pistols
i'd imagine becoming a 
girl who played guitar & smoked
cigarettes & wore fishnets 
underneath her jeans.

lily & marigold headed
i would grow up
to be in a rock band.

i would be a bowl full
of rocks &

bloom & burst,
i attracted swarms 
of bees singing distortion:

their yellow bodies
falling onto the driveway 
as guitar picks.

headphones in
i peered out my bedroom
window & watched my dad

walk each orange
recycling bin 
to the curb.

dad kept his seeds all
over the house. 
in kitchen drawers &
old shoes.

Nirvana playing softly
from the mouth of 
a white carnation 
in his head. 

when he fell asleep 
i stepped inside his head
to walk among the strange
plants he kept there.

what daughter doesn't
scour the dirt for what her father
is planting?

i collected seeds
& set them on my book shelves
in rows,

too hesitant 
to use them.

moths
i told you that my boyfriend 
was the one who taught 
me to feed moths 
to spiders. 
that was a lie. 
it was me,
i showed him. it was
my game. 

i cupped
my hands in the porch lights 
& trapped 
the fluttering insects.

i hated moths & the dust 
that comes off their wings
when they're scared. i felt
them desperate in my cage,
a paper heart,
a bowl of eyelashes. 
i think of it as cruel now
but in the moment there 
is a certain rush of life
that comes when you feed 
one animal to another.
i imagine it's the same 
for people who drop rats
into snake cages.

my boyfriend was an expert 
at cultivating me.
i called him on the phone
every morning 
& every night. a web grew in 
my mouth, the spiders,
returning to the porch afterwards 
to knit more traps.

i have practiced the art
of letting a lover use me.

from the porch
through the window
i saw my parents in the kitchen
slicing carrots for stew.
you caught a moth with 
white wings & marvelous green eyes
& asked me if it was
too big for the spiders.
i said "no" & you tossed
the moth like a baby bird
right into the tangle.

we watched side by side.
it was romantic. the spider
struggling to wrap the huge moth.
the moth staring at us,
as if we were its parents.
the moth asking us aloud
what it had done wrong
as the spider circled its
body with more bondage. 

i flinched 
& scratched my arm.
i had wanted to intervene
& free her. the spider couldn't
eat the whole moth so it 
moved on to a smaller more 
manageable fly in the web. 

he hugged 
me from behind & kissed
the side of my face.

i told him to open
his mouth. he did, hesitant
as he was. his teeth 
glowed in the yellowish
porch light. 

i turned into
a moth & flew inside.

this is a test of the emergency alert system

i hear as i'm ambling through town 
to the bus stop in the grey-blue morning.
the cold is blooming today, watered
by our reluctance to open front doors. 
no one else seems to notice the alert as 
the buildings blur into each other--
their lines betraying proximity,
wriggling then thrashing. i blur into
the people i pass: a man with black 
dress shoes, a woman wearing 
sand-dollar-sized sunglasses, a boy
with finger-less gloves. we're 
all going the same place sort of,
we pulling different directs. the bus
stop is an emergency: a tongue pressed
to the roof of one of our mouths. 
only one of us will commute today.
there are bodies under the ground,
clapping to shake the earth
as the train rolls by. the train
is just a zipper on two of our
pants: opening into a mouth
of air: a gust. this is just a
test. always a test. your voice
asks me why i haven't been sleeping
& the emergency alert screams louder
so i don't have to talk about it.
thank you emergency alert, even
if you're not real. a buttery hum.
a hollow honk. all buildings have
all collaborated. there's now
only one building, great & tall
& full of elevators. the boy
wearing finger-less gloves 
might have always been me. 
the woman takes off her glasses
& she vibrates into an ocean.
she's from underground & plucks
a stop sign out of the ground 
to use to shovel home. so we separate
& the nice black shoes aren't mine
& i feel younger in the glaze 
of the moment. the test worked
i think. i want to tell someone
that it did. i want to call my
mother & tell her everything blurry 
& everything about my fingers
at the bus stop. the voice
crumbling: the crust of a blueberry 
pie. the voice ending: bubbling
the sidewalk street cauldron. 
we're quite the alerting emergency
around here.

beach house

my favorite part about going away
to the beach at chincoteague 
once every three or so years 
was exploring the rental house. 
i searched for evidence about 
the people who owned the place. 
photographs hung in the hallway 
(were they stock photos 
or did they really have 
two beautiful
brown-haired children?). 
the monopoly game was missing 
the dog playing piece (the most
important one). the mystery
novels wearing worn & cracked
spines, aching from use (did they
re-read their mystery novels?).
in bed after days spent 
with my pink feet in soft 
sifting sand i tried
to imagine the lives of 
the home owners. all the houses
in chincoteague were named
& ours that particular year
was the "blue egret." i saw
plenty of egrets there but
none of them were "blue"
enough for my 4th grade
definition of the color.
the first people i created
were two brothers, they had
grown up together & never
married. they came here only
once or twice a year to fish
in the canal. the one brother
dreamed of catching a shark
(impossible?). 
the next were an elderly couple,
too tired to amble through
the sand  so instead they'd 
just park their car at the beach
& play board games, one 
time losing the dog monopoly 
piece down the cracks in the seat.
the final was a single young 
woman. she had bought the house
just to create something for
other people. she never read
the mystery novels, those used
to be her mom's. she wanted
them to get some use. 
she never visited & sometimes
forgot that she owned the blue egret.
i want to be like her if i could
ever own a beach house. i want 
to lay clues to the renters
about who i might be. strange
sculptures on the end tables,
a protein shake blender, photographs
of all kinds of people, no same
person in two pictures.
the children staying there,
whose parents are watching 
television or making pasta
in the kitchen, they will 
find the clues, they will
lay awake in bed & fantasize 
about the house belonging 
to world travels or artists 
when in fact the place will
just belong to me: a quiet man
parking his car alone by 
the beach to watch the 
sun turn orange then pink
then dark.

the afterlife

i don't think we've come close
to figuring out what happens to us
when we die. i believed in heaven when
i was a kid but now that i know 
God better i don't think he would
have any interest in judging every
individual person, that's a whole lot
of work & after all that work
you'd just have a big cloud
of people you'd have to entertain.
(imagine the small talk).

all the furniture in my apartment
was here when i got here &
the shelf by my bed reminds 
me of my grandfather. at night
when the shelf thinks i'm not
looking it begins to smell 
faintly of cigars. 

if we do come back, maybe we cycle 
our way through the world,
returning as a series of 
inanimate objects. my theory 
of this order for now is:
bookcases, chairs/sofas, beds,
& from there moving on to 
small appliances like lamps 
& down to forks 
& knives 
& spoons.

i lay in bed & wonder what
the bed's life was like. what do 
they think as they observe & 
hold the whole weight of 
my sprawled out body each night.
i toss & turn. i clutch them.
would they have loved me
motherly or loverly or otherwise?
do they sometimes wish
for another body to spend
each night with?

my other bookshelf is more 
secretive about who they were.
the structure is wobbly so 
occasionally my tea lights
drop off the top & it's hard to
fit more than a few books each
loose shelf. 

will you believe me if i tell you
that i know know all of this 
because i awoke one evening to see these 
objects all changed back. flickering
between lives. it was only a moment. 
there she was, my bookshelf; a tired
girl with stick straight hair &
thin wind chime arms. she was paging
through a book of poetry from
my shelf. i smiled at her & she scowled
as if i'd seen something i shouldn't.

i think noticed my bed, who i didn't
get a good look at, but all
i can tell you is that their
body was warm & they were crouched on
all fours to hold up mine.

now when i worry faintly about
death i try to remember my bookshelves
& bed & acknowledge all the furniture
in any given room. i look forward
to the distant future. i want to 
be a spoon. i think i have always
wanted this. pressed to
a stranger's lips as they 
sip from me for a fleeting seconds
maybe they will, in a corner of
their being, know that i was 
a boy who also ate from spoons,
who buried his face in pillows,
& stacked his shelves 
with poetry.