peeling

in the winter, prickly pears 
grow all over my body, mistaking
me for a cactus. they're plump
& full of purple-maroon juice.
bumpy & smooth, their surfaces
are like the bodies of some unknown fish.
i pluck them off when i come home
but they re-grow more vigorously.
fruit is most most wild at night.
contagious, they
sprout all over the house. 
they love desserts & deserts. 
the fruit crawling
up the archways of doors
& up the bed posts. 
they assemble to form a chandelier 
hanging from
the ceiling of the living room. 
they don't get you though, 
they leave you alone. 
is it because you're
not like a cactus? 
the heater makes the house 
into a dry yellow cake
& the skin on my finger nails frays 
like sand, but that's not
why this is a desert. 
it's a dessert because
the sand has always been sugar,
brown rich richer. 
you tell me again 
about the Sonoran desert
as i work, picking the pears, 
you talk about the alien creatures
that scurry across it 
& they come into my living room, 
sidewinders & javelinas,
eating prickly pears off
the coffee table.
i remove the fruit   
from my body as i stand
at the sink, peeling 
the purple-green skin off 
each one, digging my fingers
into the grainy flesh inside.
it hurts my own muscles, 
but only vaguely, 
& i eat the insides 
of each fruit. 
this is routine now
as december walks into
the house &  lays on 
the welcome mat, 
a fallen cactus.
i look down & the skin 
on my legs is bumpy & 
purple-green. i dig in
with my nails, peeling it off gentle 
so as to keep 
the sweet purple flesh
intact. it tastes like
watermelon & gravel.
we share it & wash
off our bloody mouths
in the sink, 
peel off the cactus
skin on the bed
& crawl inside
to become sand
or sugar.

alphabetizing the spices 

i took all of the spices out 
of the wrack, lined them up on
all the counters by the stove.

the house was empty & i asked
each noise in the walls
if it was a ghost & if it 
wanted to keep my company tonight.

the spices with their different
colored heads; red, green, black.
with their different heights;
the shortest like children,
i stacked them on 
each other's shoulders &

that's when they started speaking
all at once, all vying for
my attention. their voices
were muffled, coming 
from the inside of each container.

i opened first the anise
& told it to hush. it told 
me one of the stories my mother
used to tell about baking
cookies with her mother, it
spoke fast & staccato
& i put the lid back on,
giving it a place on 
the spice wrack.

the next i opened cardamom 
& cumin, both who were 
just humming different hymns;
Ave Maria & Kum ba ya.
i humored them, of course,
singing along aimlessly.

they grew impatient,
louder now, all of them. 
i told them i would talk to 
all of them, that i would
try & listen.

they threw their head
on the floor in protest,
the plastic plunking 
against tile.

that was when i realized
that i also have a head
& i could throw mine off
as well.

the three jars of turmeric
(which i can't even think
of a recipe to use that in)
spoke only in words
that people have yelled
at me from car windows.

i wondered how something
so orange could know 
what the word dyke means
& i told them to stop,
that i wouldn't keep
them if they talked to 
like that. 

pouring the spice
out in the sink they
only got louder & now 
it was in the bones of
the house.

i tipped myself too,
i had to know what spice
would come out & i dropped
apart as cinnamon sticks,
each a bone leaving my body,
i bled paprika & pulled
bay leaves from under
my tongue & when i did

the spices stopped talking.
i put in headphones &
finished alphabetizing them,
ending with tarragon. 

173 Sea Turtles

scientists hauled the first
body off the beach. a stone 
with ideas becomes sea turtle;

all covered in cold green weed & muck,
eyes half-open. 

do fossils die?

they removed 
173 sea turtles 
from the shores of Cape Cod,
death makes souvenirs,
hangs necklaces from
their mouths.

i read about them
in bed from the quiet 
light of my phone &
i want to be one of them,
one of the dead sea turtles.

i put on slippers
& drove all the way to 
Cape Cod to stare at
the dark blood water.

the waves were angry & 
begging & i sat in the sand
& tried to reason with
the ocean.

i told the Atlantic 
that it wasn't her fault,
that she had done all she could.
the tide limped back &
the water frothed like meringue.

they say the sea turtles
froze to death, they can't
usually swim so far north,
but the water had been warmer
in the summer. they were
looking for food.

i want to know what they 
thought about as they froze,
i would think about the texture
of my body in the water,

the poetry i should
have written if i had had hands
the songs that existed only
in my body,
my eyes becoming 
pearl necklace beads. 

what did they regret?
was it slow?
did they hope to come
back as another animal?

i hope to come back
as a sea turtle.

first aide on a shadow

when i came back to my apartment 
all the shadows were awry.

some of them were wrong colors,
like the bookcases that glowed
hot crimson on the floor &
the ceiling fan bleeding mauve.

i turned to look at my own
on the hardwood floor & found
it had come apart into thousands
of pieces, fragments 
across the floor like a dropped plate.

this had never happened
to me before. i wanted to call
my mom to ask what to do about
wounded shadows but i didn't
want her to think i had done
something wrong to bring 
this upon them.

i google searched
first aide on shadows
& found unhelpful Youtube
tutorials of people 
getting on all fours & colors
all the shadows in 
with sharpie marker.

the shadow of the ceiling fan
was kaleidoscope colors 
so i shifted me hands through it,
the texture of a bowl of grapes.

caressing gently the darkness
started to come back into
the shadow, so i continued,
i whispered to it

you're doing so well,
you're a wonderful shadow
& i love you.

& it returned back to normal.
i wanted to tell someone 
that i was going to fix everything
but i was too embarrassed
to have let my shadows so 
sick in the first place.

as night fell i stepped out onto 
the porch to stand all in shadow,
my own still fractured all over.

kneeling down, i touched it
with two fingers & apologized 
for not helping it sooner.
i told it that i had been busy. 

each piece felt like slices
of a cantaloupe or a melon,
sweet & wet, i walked
back inside to re-assemble 
my shadow by 
the kitchen light.  

someone else's christmas ornaments

yesterday i woke up knowing
that i needed a christmas tree
for my apartment. i saw several
cars kidnapping trees, firs all tied
up on their roofs. i drove around
for hours & couldn't find one.
i peered around the subway tracks
& in between buildings, hoping
to spot one hunched over &
munching on candy canes. 
i gave up & went to 
the thrift store; the gallery 
of past christmases.
piles of old lights rubber-banded
together & a whole colony 
of wreaths, stacked like 
the coils of great evergreen snake.
in the farthest corner i found
a fake tree in a cardboard box
& a rusted sideways star,
they hummed a mixture of 
god rest ye merry gentlemen &
deck the halls. 
in one aisle they had ziploc-bagged
dozens of ornaments,
i shifted through them like 
discount fruit, pinched & feeling
their surfaces. there were trains 
& santas & plastic orbs of all sizes.
in the bag i picked there was
on that read "to the best dad
in the world, love evan."
i picked it because it made 
me feel less lonely. 
in my living room i laid 
out my assortment. i thought
to myself how much i would
have liked the tree to have
been a real one-- my father
drilling a hole in the trunk 
for the three stand, my brother
hanging all the red ornaments first.
i pretended to be him, pulling
the tinsel off a maroon bell 
to hang when the door swung open.
all the families had found my 
house; grandparents & mothers & moms
& dads & sisters & sister & sisters
& cousins & nieces & uncles & brothers.
i said i was sorry for taking
their decorations & they congratulated 
me, opening up the boxes to help.
one of them brought a record player
like my dad's & played 
sleigh ride over & over as we worked.
they talked among each other, 
about the past year & what the children
had done in school & what they
wanted santa to bring them.
when they looked at me
they smiled, just nodding. 
when we were all done they began embracing, 
saying their goodbyes to their family members,
i had hoped one might
come over to hold me, but none
of them thought to. plugging
the tree in, it lit up confetti
colored, i hummed silent night 
& coiled up on the couch 
with a book.

Penn's woods

crossing the state line 
into Pennsylvania i spotted
William Penn. he was waving 
like a Miss America with his wrist.
i was surprised other cars
didn't see him,
what with the lush hair,
big black hat, & the frilly 
scarf thing men used to 
wear in the 1700s a cravat.
i pulled over out of respect
& he hopped right in,
folding his hands in his lap 
& toying with the radio.
How do you know what a radio is?
i asked & he didn't answer,
just kept turning knobs
& buttons. 
It's broken
i explained & he sunk
back in the seat, grumpily
rolling the window up & down.
i admitted to him
that i didn't really know
anything about him 
other than that Pennsylvania 
is named after him &
that he was a Quaker.
i say 
We learned about you 
in 3rd grade, i know we did.
At a roadside diner i help 
him out of the car.
i had been hoping he would
ask to get off somewhere
but he showed no 
indication of parting ways.
he finally spoke when 
we ordered food,
just a bowl of oatmeal.
i tell him that i like
oatmeal too but he doesn't listen.
i ordered a toasted bagel
with grape jelly.
i say 
You're not very good
company are you?
& he speaks with the voice
of young girl, answering
You didn't pick me
up for company.
he draws plans for
Philadelphia on the back
of a brown paper napkin.
he points to the streets,
just nodding at me.
finally he asks
What brings you home?
i shrug & take a sip
of coffee, looking
out the window at the cars
on the freeway. 
Family, it's a holiday, you know?
he nods. there's 
probably dozens of routes 
from New York to Pennsylvania
but every time my GPS
takes me a different way
so it feel like a different trip,
not much like coming home.
he takes my hands & says,
This is going to be 
a beautiful city.
as he points to the napkin.

i'm most scared of you when 
you say i don't love you.
it reminds me of my first boyfriend
who smelled like gasoline 
& the harder he loved me
the more i thought of fire.
i became fearful that 
the static from a blanket
or a sweater might send
us both up in flames.
i wore plastic clothing.
i ate cold food. 
up all night, i would 
scour the house for the source.
i knew all along that 
it was him
the gas
smell bloomed everywhere,
i felt it in the corridors
of my bones where marrow
is supposed to be.
& with a marker 
i would write 
i love you 
i love you
i love you
on the back of his
hand so that if he thought
of hitting me he might remember.
you are not 
a gasoline boy
but sometimes after 
a shower the house smells
like that.
while you're
asleep i find myself
searching for inflammable 
fabric to make myself
a body.

i called my parents to tell them i got home safe

the fridge was full of nothing
but garlic cloves & they fell out
onto the floor when i opened 
the door, hitting tile
& coming apart into cloves.

this much garlic could 
only be the result of well-kept
secrets & crying alone,
each clove a tear that found
flavor & grew skin.

i ask my family what has 
been going on while i've been
away & my mom rubs the dirt
off the potatoes & the celery rot,
as she works they 
also turn into garlic.

they ask me to taste &
i don't want to be rude 
so i do, i put a few cloves
into my mouth & hold
them under my tongue
until they turn to liquid
again & i swallow the saltwater.

we cut the garlic with
a butcher knife because
it's the only knife
we have left that's 
sharp enough.

the inside anatomy 
of garlic is curious, 
heart valves & finger bones
all joined together,
as i work the smell 
creep under my finger nails.

at home after dinner
i smell them & feel like
i should have asked more
about the garlic.

i open my own fridge 
& a few bunches fall out,
i put them back frantically
& open the cupboards 
to find more garlic inside.

i sit at the breakfast
table & start eating,
it's the only way to get 
rid of this much

as i chew i think of
my garlic bread phase
& the sauteed mushrooms
i made with just one 
tear drop, sizzling 
in the pan.

i finish & i check
the fridge to find just
one new bunch sitting
on the shelf.

swallowing it whole,
i feel the garlic make itself
into an organ, nestled 
somewhere in my ribs,
it's where homesickness
comes from & 
of course cravings 
for garlic bread.

spider farm

all day i pace the house
with a glass & a piece of paper, 
collecting the spiders from all 
the corners of the ceiling.

i ask them what they want
to be when they grow up
& some of them say assassins 
& some of them say bakers
& some of the say writers
(& i laughed about that one)

none of them said they 
wanted to be spools of thread
but i continued anyway
because i wanted to teach
them the lesson that
you don't always become
what you think you will,

i use thumb tacs through
their legs to secure
them to the wall like postcards.

in come the scientists;
it turns out i wasn't
the only one who has tried
to harvest spider silk.

one scientists,
Bon de Saint Hilaire
tries to sell me his
pair of gloves he wove
from spider thread in the 1700s, 
they are brittle, coming apart
as he puts them on & 

assures me that they're
the soft & revolutionary,
even as they come apart.

another, Paul Camboue,
assembles his contraption,
a special machine for pulling
the glossy silk
from the Golden Orb Weaver spider,

he tells me he doesn't have
any Golden Orb Weavers 
so i should get in,

& all of a sudden i'm
small & eight-legged, saddled
in the harness as 
the contraption whirls

who knew i had so much 
to be pulled out of me,
the thread comes out course 
& wool-like.
the scientists shake their
heads at the coarse texture
we can't use this

& as the scientists work
i apologize to the spiders
on the walls & i think
they forgive me.

when the scientists leave 
they take the yarn with them
& i pull the push pins 
out of the wall one by one,

spiders dropping to
the floor & hurrying away
on their crushed limbs

you can be whatever you want
i say

optometry

all the little boys 
want to be fighter pilots.

they take their green nets 
& stand in the yard 
waiting for a falcon 
or a hornet plane 
to fly over.

i watch them from 
the kitchen window
& i remind them that 
they will all need to
have 20/20 vision 
if they want to 
have any hope of flying
for the army.

the optometrists
arrive & set up
shop in the living room,

great metal
eye contraptions &
charts with letters
that get smaller & smaller
until they fade into 
abstraction, 

i ask what the point
of such tiny letters 
are & the optometrists 
speak in unison, they
say that the most
minute letters are actually
types of fighter planes.

i squint & see the osprey 
& the mustang-- their
propellers moving on the poster.

the optometrists 
all have only one eye
between them & it blinks
which lets me know 
i should bring the boys inside.

opening all the windows on 
the second floor, they crawl 
inside with their dirty knees
& plastic army men 
in their teeth.

they have no slept for
days, trying to catch just
one plane.

i ruffle their hair 
even though i really
want to pick them up
& tell them that they should
be boys for a little bit longer.

the boys punch each other
in line to get their eyes checked.
i think they do this out
of love for each other.

the optometrists tell
boy after boy that their 
vision isn't perfect but that
they could still maybe
be a commercial pilot.

this causes them to 
grow up instantly,
not teenage boys, but old boys,
smoking pipes in corduroys 

some of them don't take
it as well & they just disappear
into a pile of sand.

i sweep it onto the porch.

only one boy's vision was
good enough & the optometrists
took him with them,
they had brought a uniform
along, helmet & all 

i tried to ruffle his hair 
before they left but he hissed.

the old boys went back
out into the yard again
with their nets.

i wanted to ask them to
check my own vision
but i was too afraid.