a baker's dozen

dad brings home a donuts 
from the hospital. they're
crying in the front seat
4 are you
& 4 are me 
& 4 are the little brothers. 

the 13th one is an apostle,
yes we know what he does, traitor.
we know he's all angel cream 
& his powder is getting everywhere,
control yourself.

on vacation i'd get up
early with dad & me & him,
we'd go to the bakery in
the little shore side town,
stand in line & skin would
become warm & fried.


he'd let me eat him,
the old fashioned donut man,
all soft & golden & sweet,
licking fingers.

pointing, we'd pick out
our family. we'd say, mommy
like boston cream & you like 
hair full of sprinkles &
the little brothers are glazed
& sticking to each other,

all the while a sticky bun 
coils like a python, hissing
& demanding we unfurl it,
finger & thumb.

close the lid to the box,
cradle them on a drive back
they'd sit warm in my lap 

& dad would say how the bakery
doesn't actually make the donuts,
that they just order them frozen,

all the frozen donuts,
still, mouths open, crouching,
their golden foreheads & our golden
foreheads all ready to be eaten.

in the kitchen i find the 13th one
& stamp powder all over myself.
dad's been eaten now so he doesn't
stop me & you're all still asleep,

the early birds get the donut,
all of them, chirping in the nest.

i had jelly for blood.
i had cream for blood. 

biting off finger nails to 
see what type was inside.

i didn't want to wake everyone up,
not after all the mess.

crawling inside the box,
i ambled across the dark cakey surface; 

a chocolate sprinkle donut,
miles along i found dad again.

he was a young boy eating a donut.
he liked any type. he wasn't particular.
he licked his fingers, bit them off.

i said 
dad don't do that you'll need those

so he ran away, over 
the bald-headed pastries

i didn't follow him, that would
be useless. they all were crying though,
putting my fingers in them i said 

hush, hush, soon, soon.

& the lid lifted, a down pour
of kitchen light.

the family all crowded around
the box, what beautiful 
little brothers

pinching them apart
just a taste.

St. Patrick comes, he wants to gather snakes.
drills a mouse-hole by the fridge, grows grey fur,
& sets traps. clench snap-jaw, shepherd staff breaks.
our tails: tile-floor cold. the dead druids stir.

drills a mouse-hole by the fridge, grows grey fur,
& avoids talk of god. i palm-feed him.
our tails: tile-floor cold. the dead druids stir.
we chew. mouse-lips, teeth, grazing against skin. 

& avoids talk of god. i psalm-feed him.
there were never green snakes in Ireland. 
we chew. mouse-lips, teeth, grazing against skin. 
name me the bodies that get to be damned.

St. Patrick killed the snakes in Ireland 
& sets traps. clench snap-jaw, shepherd staff breaks.
name me the bodies that get to be damned.
St. Patrick comes, he wants to gather snakes.

pillow

we rest our heads on hamburgers.
i reach under & come out with ketchup
& sauce on my hand, smear it on your cheek,
finger paint. the smell of ground beef
whispering hooves into our ears.

i can't sleep again so i take out
the pickles, two of them & step them
over my eyes. the vinegar stings & 
the salt makes two oceans in my face
where my eyes had been

we drift in them, one body of water
for each of us, an inflatable 
sesame-seed raft getting soggy, 
ice-berg lettuce wings, i walk
across the bridge of my own nose
to kiss you & tell you i'm sorry 
for all the mess

you always fall asleep first.
i watch you & i take out the
ring-slivers of purple onion,
use them as halos on you,

they glow because you're holy.
i count the sesame seeds like sheep,
dropping them onto the floor as i do.
when i'm done & not asleep yet i
start over, picking them up &
counting backwards

i have a fear of eating the patty meat 
while i sleep, the smell protruding,
seeping into me. i feel cow-like,
i walk heavy & on all fours
to the bathroom to find a mirror,
in it i see the grease stains 
on my lips, i wipe them off on 
the back of my hand, i return

to the bedroom & eat the one 
under your head too.

dragon's tail & flog,
he tests them first on his 
own forearm, a careful dom

the ceiling fixture becoming
wick to drip hot wax down our backs.

i tell st blaise about how monsignor 
crossed the candles at our throats.

May Almighty God at the intercession 
of St. Blaise, Bishop & Martyr, 
preserve you from infections of the throat
& from all other afflictions 

a yawn becoming a rash,
swallowing glass,

the words that have stood 
on my teeth like bridge jumpers.

i tell him i want him to choke me

our safe word is water

his coarse fingers, sturdy as
my father's

liberation is to
for once 
be in control of 
how & where you're deprived of air,

alone on the floor with 
a floral neck tie i never wear, 

temporary asphyxiation, a scarf 

the sick animals find us,
smack against the window,

the pigeons & palm-size sidewalk birds,
grey rabbits & splotchy tabby cats 

circling the bed, they claw us
& we love it, the teeth of it all

i can't heal you anymore
he pleas. 

i have no more miracles

i wipe his tears
with the sheet, they're hot &
dry like wax

i dig my nails in his back, 

a climax of leather,
cuffed to the bed post,
red-wrist me lover,

here & now is
where i want to be bound. 

what is pain when prayer for?

peanuts
I.
the crunch of shell under foot. 
pressured between thumb & index finger,
dusty with salt. there was a steak house
up the street that let you toss the casings
on the floor as you ate, a small mound
collecting at the side of the table.
i had always wanted it to be more extreme,
a whole ball-pit of shells, a watering
hole of shells. the mouth mutter 
of the kitchen behind a swinging door,
licking salt off my fingers. i was reminded
of the squirrels we fed at the park,
my hand soft, small, & extended, waiting
for the creature to take my offering. 
their tiny human hands. i'd try to find 
ones without two in a shell, pop them 
like blueberries under foot.
II.
if i were to live as a peanut, i think
i would prefer the shell to myself, unless
of course, i could choose the person curled
up in the other lobe. i imagine us there,
reading each other poems, so close, separated
by a kink in the shell. outside the muffled
world would not know us. a dazed orange-ish sun
would mark day & night. we lose track of time.
we cannot stop tasting salt. reaching out
& never quite touching your skin, peering
at you & your pale smooth face. at times
i would wonder if you were really there at
all or if you were just an illusion born
from being enclosed for two long. they'd open
us of course, eventually. the snap of the roof,
followed by a deluge of light. oh this is where
we've lived & there you are, breathing salt like me.

lost items

no one has ever actually seen 
st. anthony of padua, the patron
of lost items & amputees, a barren man.
i think of him as i watch 
videos of phalloplasty, 
the careful folding, oh bloody 
origami body & the teal doctors
playing with stitches. i wonder
if he is the patron of absent parts 
as much as ones removed. a skin 
graph, make me obelisk, make me 
a manhood, oh please, oh no.
maybe he wandered 
off in search of someone else,
a lover? a pair of earrings?
i want to ask if remembers 
a small girl rummaging in the 
laundry closet looking for
a claddagh ring. he finds the ring
& puts it on, silver & glinting
in the neon. speaking outloud
i tell him that my relationship
to my dick is vexed, that sometimes
i want one very badly but
i can't know for sure why. it was 
a growing absence, a part i learned
that i needed. stuffing underwear
with claddagh rings & rubber 
penises; soft & toad-like. 
the doctors marvel at their work,
they take pictures of the body,
they wipe away blood as the camera flashes
flicker. i feel my own skin & 
swallow & Our Father, we don't
say that anymore.
church doctor 
st. anthony where are you?
i hide my dildos in the hopes that
he'll come to find one; 
in the potted mums on the porch,
in a cereal box, stuffed in a rain boot.
he must have because they were all
gone the next day but we didn't 
cross paths. i shoo the doctors
away from my bed side,
they draw lines on me 
when i sleep, marking where
they'll take the skin graph from.
i say no & pull the covers 
over my head.

hurling rocks at the front door,
st peter stood at the end of driveway in his slippers,
the last to leave, fury-weeping & red-faced.

he remembers the cocks, screeching 
two times & himself denying god out of fear,
hoping his life would burn up in that sun.

the roosters lay eggs this time,
i fill my pockets with them, they're
heavy with all of st peter's guilt,

the rocks 
on which he build churches 
on which he built a fist-made god 
on which he clenched body so 
tight that the fish around his boat 
turned granite & sank.

on which he prayed to wrath 
until it festered into a body,
a throne-man like we all have known,

his chicken bones on the dining room floor
without the saint women to wash & clean.

we throw the eggs, shells smashing 
on the windows, one shattering glass
the glass becoming egg shell, the egg shell
becoming stained glass, red & blue & green 
& autumn yellow-- the cocks laying oranges
made of glass-- shards or feathers?

our cocks crow, loud & confused.
what is a man then if he renounces everything?
if his god has been a god of hurt.

if brotherhood is gravel & always leaves 
the mouth dry & bleeding.

what is to be salvaged in a screaming cock?

i take mine off & put it in the drawer
with the rest of the rubber dildos

st peter's gets louder & louder
& louder-- an alarm clock-- a red-flicker siren,
a plague. 

the roosters eggs are all yolk,
no whites at all. i crack one over
my head & it runs down my back,
griddle sizzling on down spine--

the roosters give me green shiny feathers.
i tell them i'm some kind of man,
though i'm not sure what kind yet.

nail polish 

cracked & seeping on the kitchen floor,
the burgundy-- the near-blood tongue.

oh poltergeist have mercy on my nail polish,
the bottles flung from nightstands & shelves,

angry at me for becoming a boy-girl-thing.
the nail polishes gritting their teeth--

they snarl & shake. i try to soothe
them with sleep over stories of braided

fingers & blankets on floor. a purple
stain in my parent's bedroom, the bruise where we

spilled. it expands, throbbing & vein.
i dip my hand in the broken glass & paint,

make half-hand prints on the walls 
as more of them start to hurl themselves,

smashing, a jar full of some animal's tears,
an animal with no finger nails.

i want to pull them out like teeth, instead
i take a brush from the mixing puddles 

of polish, tint each tooth. become fang.
become neon blue & sixteen. 

i grin at the mirror, all wild & color.
collecting the brushes, i find them all,

picking off the glass, i sneak into bedrooms.
painting nails while people sleep, first 

my father & then my brothers. i choose carefully:
black & stop-sign red, brushing even their

door knobs as i exit. the whole world wakes up
with colorful nails, i laugh at home, safe 

as a bed could ever be. the polishes still bleeding 
out on the hard wood floor, a shard of glass 

in my foot, making nail polish of me, bleeding
auburn & green on the sheets. i don't take it 

out. i don't wash it off. come color,
make a fingernail of me.

st. afra smacked, pounding nails into wood
& i sleep-walked to where she stood in the yard;
her fishnet stockings, halo snapped into headband.

about year ago i started touching myself again,
first just a fist over top underwear,
mortar pestle me, i ground into sand, spilled

out my window. she's rebuilding the temples of venus
like the one where she used to be a hierodule.
a sacred sex slicer, a shrine shaking 

slut like me. she says she can't believe
she ever sealed off her clit for god, for christ.
laughing we make sacrifices to her,

the love goddess, chopping my dildos
sideways & pouring lubes into basins,
oh holy mother water. no ivory columns here,

just a tree house. a ladder dangling
that i climb with my lover. we make sacred 
our queer bodies. i show her how 

i touch myself & st. afra dresses
us in fishnets, roses blooming where
we once had genitals, the scent of evergreen,

the altar where our blood comes out white.
myrtles pollen pucker our throats, she prays 
for us, that we find pleasure there.

delicata

I
a squash, my thigh & the red cutting board.
the big knife & leaning to push it through
the flesh. the thwank, the pieces. the scooping
out the pulp & threads. squashes sew inside
themselves-- they make necklaces from their 
white-nail seeds. a knot of hair in the sink,
a handful in my fingers, i cup them & kiss
them before tossing the pale orange innards 
into the trash. a handful of salt on,
the scattering, the hush the grains make
as they fall on the grey pan. you say
next time we should slice them in half.
II
delicata squash the size of your jeep,
in the driveway, we use trowel & shovel 
to remove the muck. we have to work fast,
the sky turning murky & fog & grey. the flood,
a pot on the stove coming to a boil. we only
need one canoe though we make two. the soft 
sweet texture of uncooked squash, a yellow smell like 
daffodils. i tell you about the butternut 
squash soup that i'll make when everything
is over. we talk orange. we climb in 
the water craft as the first droplet falls.
water, rushing down our street, mailboxes
becoming buoys in the pouring. pulling
a blanket over us, the rain doesn't fill
our bow, we no longer hear it even. 
kissing each other in the bow, the squash 
grows back its other half, trapping us.
we tangle of necklace, we white seed.