last night st. lucy came
to my door & knocked three times.
the mother the daughter 
& the holy bedpost that i use 
as a rosary. 
running out of veneration, 
she sat at my desk chair,
placing each scented-candle of
her crown on the end table. 
rose & cream & patchouli & lavender. 
i asked her what she was
doing here so far from decemeber
& she put a finger to my mouth.
her eyes looking up from the golden 
plate, unblinking. white grape. 
for broken vows
& pagan boys we never loved. 
for the stained glass
on the brothel walls
we made a curtain. she told
me of bundles of wood
& fire that only women know.
she danced her fingers 
over flame to demonstrate.
i stuck out my tongue,
the taste her ember as 
sweet wine. eyeball in her 
palm she fed me,
yes both eyes, off the plate.
juice down my neck,
across my collar bones. 
she asked for my confessions,
turning them into pastries 
on her plate. tea cakes
& macaroons. the powdered 
sugar on our lips.
we will take this all
to the catacombs.
Diocletian, a statue outside
the window. he's dead now,
we know. but a man is 
always a statue left somewhere.
i asked her if her
eyes would grow back
& already there
was another pair.
blue & lucid.

washing machine

a tongue twisted & full 

the fat pipes that pull water from my body
& fill the living room with sea-foam

the seagulls on the sill

i want to be who you wash 
your clothing in, if not a river
than at least a hope chest

a wooden lather

downstairs, the man with a hammer 
who is always working on the ceiling
is working on the ceiling 

he is mad-running back & forth

my father's coat hangers 
are also halos are also skeletons,

all of his sundays shirts looming
behind the folding doors

i put one on & forget all 
of our names, only button &
button & button

the music box of pennies

i want you to fill me,
one article at a time

snake spun,
i hinge my jaw

come socks & sweaters

this way we can avoid
the basement & the man down there

dry chew my throat

i like to watch you fold,
it reminds me of gift wrap,

our clothing turning paper 
& flimsy 

gifting a body to a front door

i want give up on clothes,
meet in the fist of 
the man downstairs

open the door & fit inside

the water locket 

washing into a photograph

the reds bleed & we turn pink 
but we don't mind because
we like pink 
we prefer pink

 

penance

the last animal i ate was
a sea urchin. uni, the roll
of sushi tumbling across
a white plate, bicycle tires.
wasabi, a green scream,
a god-blood gone wrong.
i wrap my hands in sea weed
as an apology, sitting in
the living room & waiting
for a larger creature to
find me delectable. of all
the animals? humans are such
that they have to crack 
bodies open. what is inside?
the husks of sea urchins--
their yellow roe. the globe
growing scornful spines--
one huge bursting through
the floorboards of
my house. impale the mailbox. 
i say that i am
sorry, that i didn't mean 
to eat the sea urchin all
those years ago, only,
i did. i meant to eat her.
the sushi on my
tongue-- turning to salt
water. i spit it out
in the bathroom sink.
the bath tub, now full
of the creatures, 
echinoderms, the globular
organism. sitting among them,
they crawl up the tile walls.
we turn on the shower,
mist & algae. maybe if
i take care for them
they'll forgive me. 
i want penance, bless
me mother for i have sinned. 
each urchin a rosary bead gone angry.
each piece of furniture
in my house becoming a plate,
clear & white. 
i don't even remember what
they tasted like,
did the first human bite
one like an apple?
this is our history 
of taking.
teeth mauled with needles.
punish me
punish me
punish me
& the urchins gather,
speaking words made of
soy sauce & death bed rice.
the carpet gone sticky
& jasmine. 
they worked, turning
my eyes in to sea urchins,
a face for brothers.
two of them. black & white
world take me & 
drop me back into 
the water-- the image
can't breathe. 
of all the animals
of all the animals
to have eaten.

avenue

there's too many 
so many people living
on my street & it's night time.
the sidewalks as belt loops
thatching us together.
clapping in the windows
can indicate a birthday.
whoever's birthday it is
i hope the cake is chocolate
or at least has a frosting
rose. how old are
you now? pastry boxes
stacked on top of each
other-- tumbling. the cars
conduct themselves, their
seamless migration back
& forth to either side 
of the street. the porches
shared by squirrels & cigarettes.
mailboxes wishing everyone
could sleep so they could
read the mail aloud. 
my house gets mail for
people who no longer live
here. John & Lindsay 
& Olivia wherever they may be.
the stack lives inside
the door in case 
they return. a box of
pizza grows legs & rings
a doorbell. the grass
itches & asks for 
bare feet. do birds sleep?
a pigeon on my stoop
eating a kernel of star.
the planets are so
tired here, new york city 
a hot tongue in the horizon.
but here is my street,
lit yellow windows, 
headlights crawling on
the walls, a stroller
pushing itself. someone's
baby is crying, someone's
dog without a collar.
the thai restaurant
whose back door is
opening & closing &
opening & closing.
the dumpster fat with
broken furniture.
i don't think people
stay here long. 
the driveway jammed
four cars deep.
an ambulance snoring. 
i don't know how long
i will stay here.
wednesday
is a kind of mother,
lugging trash to
the curb. the green 
man full of bottles.
black  plastic bags.
night time walkers
are either ghosts or
restless or hungry
or all three.
i looked down when they
walk by so they 
won't see me from
the white plastic chair
on my porch.
my street has so many
people.

Dear Christine Blasey Ford,

i first knew that 
an ovary was an appendage
when i felt it make 
a fist. to bear witness,
to bare a body. 
god is made of wood
& he knows us machines.
i want to make sense 
for you.
the boys who have been
boys & will die boys
who i will maybe someday 
summon me. i have
never reported a rape
& so the word turns
into an ouroboros
in my mouth. the
snake eating its tail. 
around
& around & around with
teeth. this shouldn't
have to be you.
this shouldn't have to
be me. but it was.
it was it was it was.
so it was. 
& we should not have
to meet like this.
in the belly of 
a beached whale
that is justice.
there is, as always,
just us. i do not
know you but there
is a polygraph
under the obelisk,
the truth is a ring
in the mouth of
an intruded body.
i'm here to tell
you he was 17 & i was
15 & my fist 
has not let go
of the name. 
he said she said 
he said she said 
she said she said 
she said she said 
& said & said & said
i said i want 
a bed that doesn't
remind me of gabbles.
the smack. the throws.
a thank you dissolves
cherry throat.
this isn't a thank you,
this isn't
where we'll meet,
this is a benediction,
on the skin as
evidence 
call alchemy
call a fact fucked
in half & call
that half her.
call saint agnes
& agatha & always
always always joan. 

several tongues

i couldn't help myself but
lick each knives instead of 
washing them off in the sink,
a tongue split in two,
one escaped on the tile floor.
i should be more careful
but i'm old now.
the sink full of submarines
& the garbage disposal a 
handful of teeth. this happens
all the time, i lose them
& live curious about
their possible return. 
the vermin they are. 
i know their feet & their
white bellies, the soil
on their skin. when no 
one is watching that's when 
hunger takes over-- when 
the plate congregates with 
chicken bones & all 
the old tongues quiver,
contemplate returning home.
i know they want to.
how many times has my mouth 
made divisions?
the collision of language-taste,
the word "calliope" always leaves
everything tasting like 
cantaloupe. i feel each & every tongue,
so many under the top soil.
other ones hide in potted
plants & under pillows with
all the baby teeth that
have yet to be collected.
i've become accustomed to 
the aluminum taste of blood,
to dabbing my mouth with
a wad of toilet paper. 
they always leave no matter
what i feed them. i open
the fridge to take out 
slices of un-orange cheese.
i eat an orange & lick 
the juice off my forearm 
& the counter, take a 
Clorox wipe & press it to 
my face. i will clean (punish)
the tongue if it insists
on escape. the serrated knives,
drawing my pink skin across.
a loaf of bread. slice &
slice & slice. aluminum 
foil, wrapped up. these
are leftovers. the swimming
in roots. they won't
be coming back, i know this
at least.

Again, my father throws back the bluegills,

only, this time with my brother & the lake.

The holes in my earlobes; gaps my skin fills.

open close, open close: the algae ache.

 

only this time with my brother & the lake.

my lip, the landline, & the 32 size hook.

open close, open close: the algae ache.

Our yellow house in the telephone book.

 

my lip, the landline, & the 32 size hook.

If I die, let me return a sunfish.

Our yellow house in the telephone book.

caught by the septum, oh aberdeen wish.

 

If I die, let me come home a sunfish.

The holes in my earlobes; gaps a hook fills

caught by the septum, oh aberdeen bliss.

So, yes, my father throws back the bluegills.

did you sleep well?

press flat into a cover.
boys with no sheets. 
boys falling off bunk beds--
the floor of the rain forest
where the jaguar is shadow 
& lavender. the springs cobra
coiled, i let you out, 
seeping onto the floor board--
the smoke of a dragon. 
what do i keep under the bed?
i keep dried rose petals &
nettles & other means for 
burning. i wait for you
to fall asleep to mark
the door with lamb's blood.
my mother first told
me the story of the angel 
of death-- when i picture
her i imagine the angel as a woman
with no eyes-- just holes
that turn into the long
hallway in my parent's house--
the longer longer longer
hallway. you stand at the
end but you become
the closet-- your shoulder,
a door knob. please sleep well.
i promise there is nothing
here-- just a boy in his
backyard-- cold & damp with dew.
the first born son,
a kind of talisman around
the neck of a house. 
i coax the snakes back into
the mattress, i do this
with dead mice. they still
snap at me & i tell them that you're
sleeping. pillowcase promise
that you recognize me even
in the dark of the room--
that the spoon in the sink
is a boy. that the glass
of water on the end 
table is full of lips.
i take mine off 
& hang them above the bed,
placed with a single thumb tac,
cover them with my hand
& tell them hush.

koi 

i watched the men come to feed
the koi fish outside the library.
they aren't impatient, they eat 
out of hand with 
please-let-me-kiss-you mouths. 
the water pours, a running sink.
i wonder if the fish sometimes 
look up & contemplate the building.
i want to kneel by the water
& read to them, tear out
the pages of an old book &
let them float in the water.
i'd start with the pages of a
dictionary, the letter 'A'
like a building. would they 
contemplate moving there--
to a place with such 
an angled roof. the people come
& go. i think that in another
life that you were a koi fish.
i don't know exactly why i say
this, but when i see the fish 
all congregated in the water 
i imagine myself
stepping in, kneeling,
kissing you on the forehead.
it could be something about
the way your body flows--
a gust, a fist full of 
wind chimes. i could ask 
you to reach up & unscrew
the moon but it's already in
the water. maybe we both were.
i touch the surface with only
one finger-- the ripples,
a new quiet species. the koi, 
writing their verses on 
the library windows.
their language of mouth 
& air. a tail rhythm.
there's one koi fish 
with a great red dot 
on its forehead & you
told me that she would 
be sought after in japan:
Tancho Kohaku. i ask her
to borrow the sphere
& she hands it over eagerly.
i keep it in my pocket 
in case we ever need another
sun. i could make it into
a ring & slip it onto
your finger while you're
asleep. will you tell 
me stories, tell me 
fish stories? i'll tell 
you mine-- the lamps
along the walk way obscuring
in the water, a ripple
as a necklace.

on the stone back stoop, someone always leaves bread crumbs.
piled, a modest mountain, come thieves, eat bread crumbs.

not everyday, but often. naan & ciabatta.
an offering y platanos, being bread crumbs. 

the stale baguette was for the chickadee children 
& i met pigeons, they ask, who brought these bread crumbs?

i sit with the birds, i tell them about my love.
they heard rumors that humans live off of bread crumbs.

course we do, but i lied & said we eat meatloaf.
a bare stoop, where, broken down, there had been bread crumbs.

i wonder about you, where you make your bread crumbs
& why you leave them. visit me, let's be bread crumbs.