the phlebotomist's lover

as he puts the rubber band around my forearm 

i explain that i sometimes faint 

when i have my blood drawn & by sometimes i mean 

that once i went with my mom in 8th grade & 
the nurse tried to tell me that she once took 
Jerry Seinfeld's blood & i didn't know who that was.
i felt as if i were crawling, hands & knees
through a tunnel & then i woke up
to the coral green waiting room.

as he puts the rubber band around my forearm

i want to ask him what his lover thinks of this,

if he or she or they know that each day

he takes the cool sharp needle, tells 

boys like me to "talk to him" & to

"tell me something about yourself." 

i imagine telling him that i associate needles
with family. that each time i have my blood drawn
i see all of the standing in the corner 
of the sterile white room & i mean all of them, 
i mean aunts & grandmom & brothers & mom & dad,
all of them watching me let this man plunge
the needle deep into my arm, blood filling his
vials quickly, a quick gush & nothing more.

as he takes the rubber man away from around my forearm

i try to remember what i told him in that moment

& i think i said that i have a little brother who

is 6 years old (which is a lie, he's 10)
& that he misses me while i'm at college which
is also probably a lie because he doesn't 
know me any different, i've always been in school.

as he takes the rubber man away from around my forearm

i want to as him if it's really over

if all we were was an exchange of blood, if 

at night he lays next to his lover & tells 

them about all the bodies he entered,

holding up his fingers to count them,
maybe stopping as he remembers me. maybe
he skips me because what we had was too alive
to have just been 8 vials of blood.
does he keep one & tell no one?

on obsession 

i have recently discovered
the powering of slamming doors.

maybe i had always known, 
but yesterday it started by accident,

just a desire to shut, a thrust,
the swing behind me,

the rattle of the hinge like 
clenched teeth, the slap of 

wood against the frame, the front
door & its gold knob nose

aching because of me. after
that i had a need to do it more.

you have to understand this 
isn't out of anger, this is a way

of existing. have you slammed
a door lately? i do it whenever

i have the chance. in & out
of my bedroom, the click, 

a mouth with the teeth 
all fallen out. i collect 

molars off the hard wood floor
& slip them back into the frame.

i slam my mouth like a door,
my nose gone golden. 

freshman year of college 
i had a roommate who would 

shut the door loud again 
& again late into the night.

i thought she was insane,
in the dark i pushed my eyes 

shut as she threw the door,
the thick heavy door, banging our 

box of a room. i understand her
now, i think. i want to ask her 

what it felt like to stand 
outside in the dorm room hall

pushing the door again & again.
had she been angry? had she just 

needed to feel real? i understand
i do. i wish she would had 

shown me then so i could
get it out of my system young. 

i can't stop now.
i try to find a new door each day,

ambling up to strangers houses
& asking politely if i can open 

& shut their front door.
each type of wood, each house 

has a different pleasing sound.
i lay in bed shutting my mouth

like my roommate once shut that door.
again & again, i collect 

the teeth from my pillow
& put them back in.

this is how/ 
i cut/ myself
with a spoon/ the edge dipped
into wrist/ where everyone starts/
im ice cream/ im sherbet/ pink
& i eat/ 
& there's flavor/
like cut finger nails / & metal.
a chewing gum/ named
"aluminum." spoonful 
by spoonful/ behind
a locked door/ where 
i like to eat/ everything/
& there's nothing left/
for you. i want someone/  
to love me/ so hard that
i don't come back/ here
& stare / at the sharp hems 
of spoons. oh dixie cup/
i devour/ alone so /
you don't/ get to see/
what face i make/ with each
cool slip/ of silver
into skin/ pint after pint/
i cut/ myself/ 
with spoons/
delicious/ melt/ 
a whole drawer/ of options 
for ways to/ make
this body/ i want to/
love/ someone /
who lives like
i do/ spoons/ 
in backpacks/ lodged
in their bones/ surgical
tools/ a memory 
of a boy holding/
a spoon/ over my/ mouth
like a bowl/
don't/ stir/ me

strawberry window  

voice all thumb print 
on the open window:
outside someone is singing
& their voice comes in smooth
like a hard caramel.
sweet saliva dew. i want
to crawl into that mouth
& feel each note hum through me.
i'll be her handful of harpsichord.
i'll be her plastic kuzoo.
this winter's gone strawberry 
with bouts of mud.
i reach my arm out, hoping
to clutch a fragment 
of that ribbon-ing melody
but instead catch 
a blue robin's egg
as it drops from a bare tree.
cold planet pluto, a melting
piece of hail with a glass bird
inside. the trees, 
like adam & eve, realize 
on this strange
night that they aren't wearing
any leaves. they reach for 
shirt. i give them away
each one button at a time,
one for you
one for you
& this is not enough
so the one takes 
my floral print button-up shirt
& the other takes me teal pants,
draping the garment over a branch.
they weep, knowing that they're
still so naked. they don't
pay attention like i do
as i hear the singing
getting farther away.
what song is that?
i ask again & again
but there's only me 
& the sobbing oaks &
the melting egg still dripping
in my palm. i could follow
the voice, i know,
but that would ruin 
the mystery of it. i crawl back
in through the open window
& lay on my own voice,
the floor of my office
where the egg turns 
completely into liquid
& the glass bird is too 
small to speak. i let 
the singing fade out into
another laugh of wind. 
what song was that?
what song?
& how would it feel 
inside that mouth, under
a warm wet tongue
as the tune trickled 
& clothed me.

individually packaged 

everything's wrapped up
around here, the cellophane
round the dead trees,
standing bent 
as dried sea horses,
try to find the corner
to undo them,
picking with my nails.

then of course there's 
the tupperware with whole
houses instead. i approach 
but there's no way i could
pry off the clear red lid 
on my own,
is this where you live?
behind a dull wall. 
does it keep you all fresh?

do your parents tell
your to lay down on 
press & seal: roll you up.
you make a crinkling body.
i but you smell like 
cilantro & lemongrass. 
you stay young.

outside someone comes
by each day to wrap birds
in foil, twisting up each
in the shape of swans.
they perch all across
the yard, occasionally 
rustling & i say 
ssh ssh
hold still, you'll spoil.

TEAR HERE
says a cloud. i reach for
the plastic corner, pinch
between fingers. i think
for a second that maybe 
i shouldn't. that maybe
i'll ruin everything if i open
this all up.

i think of you wrapped up
in bed & your parents in their 
own separate tupperwares,
everything so crisp.
i will eat you someday,
i mutter.

i pull the corner 
& the sky lets out a sigh,
like taking off pants
like spilling a glass 
of orange juice that wanted
to topple over all along.

all the packaging holding
in a May mouthful of
wanting behind the seal. 

i know this means 
we'll go bad. we'll ripen & rot
terribly soon.
a kind of organic panic.
i want to look at 
your house from far away.
to see it contort: 
an apple core
a collapsing swan
a drying sea horse. 


 

a google search: how to []

do you know that you can make
marshmallows?

from scratch with ingredients
in the cabinets.

i thought they were supernatural
or maybe manufactured

hold out you hands, i'm going
to mix them in your palms,

i want you sticky & syrup,
you can make marshmallows, you can

make them like cupcakes 
or apple sauce, open your mouth

i want to count your marshmallows
i mean teeth, you have 

to be careful or you'll grow
marshmallows all from 

your gums: gelatin, sugar,
corn syrup, sugar, cold water.

what if we're already marshmallow?
let's mix inside your mouth,

open, lift me in. the swell
of a hot marshmallow, your tongue

gone white with worry. i promise
this is all temporary, nothing

marshmallow lasts very long.
there's the microwave to make 

swell of that. your teeth will
dissolve, yes, but they will be

sweet. they will be homemade 
& your will know every single 

speck of sugar inside. let's 
count them, i'll line them 

up on your taste bugs: pink
stippling. a farm. doesn't everyone 

want to use their mouth 
as a bowl full of hot? a bowl

full of fingers & teeth?
one big huge marshmallow all

stuck under my fingernails.
that's you. that's loving someone 

all day all night all mixing.
a campfire on your palette.

a marshmallow, just one 
between us, swelling huge.

negative six degrees

a cupped palm, a turn of hair:
i watch as the waves freeze solid

a few feet from shore. they rise
up just to hold still. a swallowed

breath. the memory of a jump 
held by water. what do we do

if the water in our bodies 
becomes motionless. statues; 

where is medusa? a head full of
winter, a skull dripping icicle.

the ocean knows when to stop,
when to give into temperature

& write another life. this is
my chance to walk over waves.

what kind of man trusts 
the ocean to stay frozen beneath

him? great tongues of blue, great
salt & salt. mermaid with me,

scales of water. a kelp curtain
clitoris where the whole atlantic 

pauses before entrance. the pipes
of the house become waves too

silent & un-cracking. they tell
stories of movement & of rushing,

all the rushing & surge. a hand 
in the water. a hot faucet spitting

song. i pour myself a bath but
the water lays down still. a dead

dog. getting in the bath i imagine you 
finding me, not me but a peak 

of water. creased & seashell-hearted
& blood turned to pipes turned 

to wave. don't try to warm me.
pick me up & exhibit me. take pictures

& amble over each crest of body.
someday we will have an ocean again.

what is a lover but a frozen 
ocean to try & thaw & thaw.

a dead dog. nothing to make 
a handful of. in the streets there

are thousands of people becoming
statues. where do they go?

a throw from the water, we should
start calling everyone a body of salt.

i say through the ice: it's not
our fault it's not our fault 

but it is. the house gulps. 
we are warm & the light in the kitchen

is waiting with a bath drawn.

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.