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

like crickets 

there is a chorus of meal worms
a strange amber writhing
a toad will close its eyes
to swallow
a room full of crickets 
leaping over each other 
& asking louder & louder
if the grass has changed 
colors while they've been away
all the insects in the pet store
are waiting to be eaten
aren't they?
they have to know on
some level what their 
crowding means & when
i am in a crowded subway car
this is all i can think about
how we look like crickets 
legs thin & jutting
eyes posed wide & 
unable to blink 
click-clack of the train 
moving there are reptile 
shadows all moving too smooth 
a graffiti born predator
i go to the pet store
& i sit in front of cages
of prey & i tell them they 
need to find a way out
they need to leave now
before they're
taken & set in terrariums 
with hungry animals
who have to close their eyes
to swallow 
i never close my eyes when
i'm eating as a precaution 
the lights all go out
in the subway car & i consider
becoming a cricket down there
in the damp & the cool 
the lights all come on
& the people are all meal worms 
everyone of them around my ankles
like soft bracelets
it's me then it's me
i'm a the reptile moving 
gentle as water
a tongue scooping insects
i get on my crooked knees 
& eat them
eat all the people 
who had been in the subway car
with me 
& i get out & tell no one
what i've accomplished 
& run to the pet store 
to warn the crickets 
& the meal worms
to get out while they
can get out of the city
& go live with family 
in tall grass somewhere
tell stories about how close
your bodies were together
leg crossing leg
fingers eyes antennae
twitching with crowd  

within a name  

my father's signature
is written clearly 
under both of my eyelids
inscribing himself 
he stands on the pupil 
an ink black island
repeats the three dips 
to form wriggling name
nothing of language or letters
a three peaked mountain
& i lay in bed & 
watch him work for hours
he writes his signature 
so many times he runs out 
of room on the lids 
& starts writing 
in the white of the eyes
a trough of milk
a pale wrist an inverted
inkwell & he presses
the pen each motion
i feel somewhere tectonic 
as if there is a landscape 
faraway & yet buried in me
the three peaks of a written mountain
as if our parent's signatures
leave terrain in us
& he sinks into the ink
a man hiding in my pupil 
fetal position 
shake head back & forth
to rock him
so i go with one shoe on
& no backpack up from
a night & into a signature 
were there's walking to do
in a single written line
mountains come into focus
the wind there playing 
jagged snippets of his voice
i try to coax him out 
but he pretends to stay asleep
on the top of the mountain 
i lay down too
just like him
i write my name 
in the dirt there not
to defile the place 
but to ask what a name
will do within a name
within a name & so on
mine turns to water there 
vein branching all down 
the rocks
bodily & explosive 
i wonder if he's walking
inside his own shut eye
if his father is there 
stranded on his pupil
if he wishes his father would come
out & walk a word 
with him
how a word in ink 
becomes element
a rock 
a tangible 
a sweet rotting floor
i rub the word
off all the walls of my eye
cup the mountain 
in a palm & wash it off
in warm sink water

i want to write
about the cherry blossom trees
on campus but i don't know
what i could say that would
be wanted or needed 
that's why we should avoid
the subject of flowers all together
but here i go 
i stood at the end of 
the path and let the wind 
pull a handful of pink
from branches
i imagine un-see-able fingers 
raking sweet color from my hair  
how can that happen?
how can the wind and 
the tree conspire like
that to make an image 
so unknowable?
from inside a building
i watch the tree
hoping wind will come
again and i think 
of a class i took
years ago where we found
ourselves arguing
about what is and isn't art
the professor pointed 
and said 
well the tree, we can
agree the tree isn't art 
and, only inside myself,
i said no 
if the tree isn't art 
i could never know 
what else is
i'm inside now 
thinking what pink
the wind might sifting 
for in me 
if the petals argue 
about whether or not
my body standing
feet away 
is a work of art 
or just a conspiracy
of image

muscles 

in a news article i read
they found a giant
15ft long python today 
image: five men working to hold 
the thick ink ribbon up
dry tall grass all around 
the muscles of the men all
strained against the weight
of the animal
balloons under skin
the snake longer
than three of me 
if I was all laying down on the floor
& looking up at the ceiling
three of me rolling over 
to lay on our stomachs
three of me, each counting
the other one's scales
a collar bone full of scale
flattened jewels
a necklace pressed into flesh 
i'm thinking about the snake's muscles 
what that looks like
under the scale
a kind of collaboration 
of meat
a belly asking the ground
over & over
what the body should do
with all the directions
how to scale a heavy wall 
i check my room for
snakes: under bed &
in the closet
i do find a snake
possibly longer than
the one those men found
i should have known it's
been here all this time
this snake is green & loud
with tongue flickering
a pink flame
i do what all people
would do &
i get on my stomach 
so that it knows i'm
just a snake too 
& the snake shows me 
how to get longer
how to stretch & remain 
thick with muscle
the important part 
is finding a place to leave
your bones
i hung mine on coat hangers
making mobiles
our bones must prevent
something more 
than just stretching
i think of those men
holding the snake up &
the way their bones
& muscles let them 
bring the creature into the air
the strained grins on their faces
the fear evident 
in their their knees
i'm thankful 
i'm the snake 

to our Xmas tree in april

we left the fake Xmas tree
in the living room so long
that it came alive
this morning.
it's near the end 
of april & i think
this might have something
to do with all the rain.
maybe it rained so much
that the tree 
got inspired.
i smelled pine 
all the way across 
the house &
so i plucked a few needles,
rolling them in my fingers 
to be sure-- yes fresh 
evergreen smell,
almost edible.
i asked the tree 
right away what it was thinking
& what we were going
to do with it
now that it decided to be real.
a breeze rustled it's branches
which was strange because 
no windows were open.
i knew that meant
that the tree wanted more.
the next day the house
filled with chirping,
all sort of birds all
nesting in the tree--
tangles of branch beds 
on nearly every limb--
a blue jay munching cheerios
from the cabinet-- a swallow
basking in a sink full 
of water. 
i was so jealous 
of the tree that something
could have stirred it
to all of this, that 
the tree was so happy 
so easily.
i wondered if maybe
i should stay still &
let birds nest in me
if maybe that would make
it feel like a new season 
in a new place
instead of a tangle of
branches
i broke arms off the tree
& used them to make 
a nest in my bed 
i told the birds to come
& let me in 
on their secrets.
the rain arrived sudden
washing each window with beads
of water. the birds
opened the windows by themselves
& i picked up the branches
to find them turned plastic again.
inhaling deeply,
pacing the house
i hoped to locate even a faint
scent of evergreen 
to confirm for myself
it was here 
in the first place.

if there is a stone to be 
eaten i know it
& i think about the dinosaurs
who ate stones to digest the leafy plants
they swallowed
leaves like feathers of a bird 
fossilized in rib cage
my therapist asks me what i think i am 
outside of all the things i do
& i want to say nothing
by which i mean 
i believe i am nothing
outside of what i write
what comes pouring out of me 
a stomach full of stones 
a green bird
aching with fossil
but instead i tell her
that i like to think 
i am kind & that 
i read beautiful 
people & that i write poetry 
enough to make up for the rest
(insert thought about 
the purpose a therapist 
can serve in a poem)
(insert a thought about 
running out of money to see 
that therapist who is now
just a line in your poem)
(insert a cup of strawberries
measured perfectly)
(insert a boy who lays on 
his stomach by the creek, peels 
a layer of moss off a stone before
placing it in his mouth)
(inert a boy not swallowing)
there are good things
that come from heaviness
the way the whole earth might
laugh under the feet of a dinosaur 
the way the earth might
laugh when i lay down 
& ask again 
if i am real
i do not know how many
stones there are to eat
or how i will perfectly fit them
in a measuring cup
but i will find a way 
& i do not think i will ever
be a person cured 
of all my (insert a list 
of sadness here)
but i am placing
a rock in my mouth & 
not swallowing

old city 

there is a woman 
crumpling pages of
library books & hanging them
with fishing wire from the 
cherry blossoms
i listen to the soft 
crush of each page as she
squeezes paper in her fist
ringers on her fingers clink
as she works
i watch & she lives inside
a tapestry someone 
at a library tried to tell me about
said there are panes of fabric 
each capturing a different era
of the city 
one behind the other
pull them down & you 
could find older & older city
i tugged
the great clothes loose
each hitting the tile floor
with a slump 
dust scattering 
the room thick with a hushed 
sticky mist 
breathing it in i tasted 
old buried city & came upon
the woman crumpling pages
& hanging them from 
cherry blossoms branches
straining she reached 
billowy sleeves & hair
made of dust 
it was the same someone
who told me about the tapestries 
who planted sewing needles
in the wooden floor of library 
she ran fingers up & down 
the spines of books there
& each time she did i 
felt it as if it were my own spine 
i sat to watch her work 
& asked her what she was doing
with those pages
she didn't turn to acknowledge me
just kept on decorating
& children swarmed her
to pluck the pages
stuffing them into their mouths
hungry small beings
the city was 
just this tree back then i think 
no tenement houses 
no streets of plastic trash 
no sirens shouting themselves apart 
no libraries just library books 
& this women tearing them apart
i touched the tapestry & 
without warning it fell 
a gasp of soot
heavy soot filling the air
i waved my hands & behind
tapestry was nothing
truly nothing 
no just blank a kind of opening 
that only the old bones 
of the city knows 
i somehow leave 
back on a street & all the blooming trees
have shed themselves already
their browning petals 
on the sidewalk 
i pick up a handful 
& put it in my mouth 
let it sit in there until they
turn to paper
consider taking it out of 
my mouth to read 
but instead swallow & 
keep walking 

small god  

all year round,
i find plastic easter eggs 
hidden everywhere.
on windowsills, on grocery store shelves,
in the crook of dogwood tree branches,
and i think i'm the only one
the sees them.
at first 
i purposefully ignored the eggs,
assuming they were intended 
for some else.
even in my home 
i told myself 
there must be a child here
i don't know about.
or these must be a gift
a different tenant left here
for another 
not me though.  
recently though something
has changed in me.
it wasn't subtle,
it was hungry & anxious.
walking home from the train
i saw a pastel pink one
in the street & swiped it up.
i already needed more.
feeling the capsules all over,
they were staring 
blank eyes.
i shook the egg to try 
to guess what it was hiding
with each shake
the rustling would be different.
once like a rattle snake tail
then a bell
then a handful of sand.
i did not open it,
just needed more of them.
got shopping bags & swept the house,
filling bag after bag
then out into the town
street by street.
green egg blue egg yellow egg.
i got strange looks & tried
to show off the eggs but other people
just saw that emptiness.
they shook their heads, confused
at my bags of air.
i reassured myself they must 
just have their own eggs.
i got this vision of the whole world
as a scheme of overlapping 
piles of eggs.
each day we're just 
trudging through them, kicking 
other people's plastic eggs 
around without knowing it.
i made a nest for the eggs
from pillows & i laid down
on top of them.
no i don't think they'll hatch
into birds but i think
they might hatch into something.
or maybe they'll hatch into nothing
erase themselves
to re-hide. i keep them warm
so they know it's okay to 
have nothing to give.
i don't open them myself
because i want to be patient.
i want to  be a good 
kind person. 
i do let myself clutch 
them in my hands
one egg at a time.
i swear i feel a small god
in there. maybe he hides
the eggs. maybe he is the eggs.
maybe he's hatching.
i keep collecting the eggs
shaking them every once in awhile
to check on the possibility
there might be something.