hair pulled out with a fork

all the hair in the world
grew in our drain--
strands of all different colors
& lengths-- 
a full galaxy of hair peering
from the grate in the bathtub.
i sat on the side of the tub
with a fork, trying
to unclog the nest--
out came jewelry too--
a necklace with red gems 
i wore to one christmas concert,
a pin mom would stick
to the lapel of her jean jacket,
& all those stray earrings--
almost none of them were mine,
earrings planted in the hair
like seeds-- their glinting 
pointed backs. i didn't
question who did this
to our drain-- these kinds 
of things just happen.
somedays all the hair
comes to conspire against you:
curly hair, blonde stringy hair,
blue scraggly hair.
the ceiling decided to rain,
no not the shower head
the actual ceiling
all over the house &
the clogged drain wouldn't 
come unclogged so the water
level rose. it told myself
not to worry-- that some
would have to give. the water
came up to my shins,
murky green water-- like
a great big mug of tea.
i wondered if there 
were heads in the drain 
along with the hair--
if that was what was keeping
it clogged-- if down there 
a bunch of heads were 
talking about their hair--
ghosts or maybe alive 
just dislocated. a few
nights ago i woke up
in a dark tunnel that might
have been someone else's drain.
i made myself fall asleep again--
i didn't get a good look
but maybe there were others
down there too. have you 
ever had your hair pulled out
with a fork? pasta skull people.
the water coming up to my waist.
i make the best of it 
& spill soap to make suds--
a bloom of white foam.
back in the bathroom i submerge 
myself to talk to the drain--
i say i understand i understand
sometimes it's better that way
i didn't know what i was 
talking about but that seemed
comforting. a great gag & the hair 
all escaped-- a sliding of 
jewels down a throat. bundles
of hair as bouquets. i imagine 
sticking my hand down into 
the drain & feeling all that
hair but it's too late &
the water lowers into 
the tub-- everything dripping.
i sleep in the slick bathtub,
the drain sings, voice getting
softer through the night
until by morning 
it is gone.

perfectly slivered almonds 

there is a person 
whose only job is to 
cut almonds into careful perfect slivers
& pour them into packets 
for the baking section. his father
did this job as well & everyone
in his family is especially good
at gripping the brown surface
of the almond & holding it still.
i tried to sliver almonds 
for a recipe but instead 
slivered the side of my thumb
& i thought about this man,
wishing i knew him 
so he could arrive &
fix my whole almonds. hold
almonds hover in my kitchen
like thick flies or apostrophes.
i don't eat almonds but if i did
this would be convenient.
if i practice hard enough
i could probably be the man
who cuts almonds into slivers.
the truth is that no matter
what recipe you start making
you'll always be missing some
ingredient. i have such
a hard time crying anymore,
though i'm not sure if that's
do to age or the hormones. no eggs in 
the house-- i smash almonds 
with the back of a knife
until their tiny yolks 
start to ooze. in the cupboard
in my parent's house
we had different jars 
of nuts & sometimes
i would take just one
salted almond & suck 
on it till all the salt
was off & it was just 
that hard droplet shape.
maybe i would have an easier time
crying if my tears didn't 
have to come out as almonds--
budding from the corners
of my eyes-- that man
is working somewhere with his 
perfect knife with his perfect
technique--those perfect slivered
almonds. i can't find
the recipe on my phone.
i'm not sure what i wanted 
to make i was just baking to
get rid of some time.
time is also hovering
in the kitchen alongside
the almonds only time 
makes a louder buzzing sound.
time & almonds are probably
the same species.
if i met him, the man who 
slivers almonds, i would tell
him that i want that most days
i want that same kind
of purpose. i want to ask
him how he knew he would
be happy completing one task
over & over. maybe he'll say
he's not happy. he's not
allowed to be not happy.
i have to believe the man 
who cuts the almonds is
full of joy-- is euphoric 
each time he presses down 
his knife. maybe he'll say 
he thinks of men like me
who can't cut almonds--
who are actually haunted 
by them. there's something
in the oven i don't remember
making. i'm scared i burned it
with all this crying--
but no it was just
a tray of almonds--
lightly toasting.

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