musical chairs

i wish the house would
stop playing musical chairs,
it's getting to be too much & i'm tired.
first with the kitchen, just a few mornings ago,
i noticed a red pleather arm chair at
the breakfast bar that i had never seen before,
i touched the surface & it rocked 
like an egg on a counter top. 
sitting down, cautiously a faint
song began, like a carnival tune
only made of wood. scanning the house
i found several other chairs that i
had never seen before; an extravagant 
emerald throne & a simple
white wooden stool, both standing in the middle
of the living room like strangers, guests maybe.
i talked to them, i said,
i don't know what you want with me.
& only late into the night did i begin
to understand. i wanted to call 
you but i was embarrassed 
about it all, i told you i was
working on having a more sturdy reality
& here i go with all of this.
i called my mom & hung up the phone
when she answered. the house began
to play musical chairs, it had invited
guests & i watched from the door
of my room. all the guests,
old guests & new guests & nightgown guests,
all of them meandering around the kitchen,
waiting for the music to stop.
i knew i had to join them, so i did,
i wondered to myself if purgatory 
would be something like this,
like a cold kitchen with mismatched chairs.
instead of taking them away the guests
added chairs, the brought them 
in through the window. the house
gave life to chairs. everything 
is a chair or was a chair, my mom
was a really beautiful chair, a blue
recliner with grandmom's cigarette ash
as stuffing. i would be-- i would be 
maybe a dining room chair with one
wobbly leg & tasteful red upholstery.
when the guests lose they lay, face down
on the floor. each morning, now
i take the lost-guests out with the trash,
they're light as big plush dolls.
more & more chairs. i try to sit 
in them all each day but it becomes
nearly impossible. the ones that i miss
always go & turn into cats. they scale 
the ceiling. they meow. i ask them
to come down but they just hiss.
i call my mom & tell her to come over
& sit. i recall the rocking chair
in my old bed room, the one
grandmom gave her when i was born,
it rocks like an egg. i want to crack it.
i  hang up before she answers.
there's eight cats on the ceiling
& more chairs coming &
the music stops. 

turtle shell

i made a turtle shell for myself
out of picture frames, doorknobs & gravity,
as i lay on my stomach next to my bed,
i was thinking about our pet red-ear slider
& her body, how she would dry herself
on the rock in the middle of her blue kiddie pool;
her face & shell becoming flaky 
in the heat lamp stare. we kept her
pool in the basement in the winter
& we would forget about her
for all those months. walking
around upstairs with our two-legs
& pink unprotected fingers. Occasionally,
dad would remember her & the two
of us would rush down 
the wooden basement stairs 
to check if she was alive. there she'd be 
scratching at the plastic lip 
of her solar system,
sometimes orbiting the sunning stone
forever at the center. i think 
of the way her greyish skin stretched
at the edges of the shell sewn 
into the structure. i feel that sensation
happening to me in each bedroom 
i've ever existed in, my body
attaching gently to the windows
& door. i ask myself how many people
can fit inside a turtle shell & 
i blink & there i'm standing 
inside the shell of our little turtle
from years ago, there's a chandelier 
hanging & no space for anyone else
despite the room being wide & open. space is
not always physical. i write your name
on the floor & the walls, thinking
of how we could use this place 
for ballroom dancing. i wonder if
you ever feel like this,
the body making a room of you.
the turtle ducks her head inside
& blinks; eyes dull planets: i turned one 
as a door knob to escape &
there i am again. i find my room
full of dried turtle shells,
all the flesh of the creatures
on rotted away. i try them
on but don't look in in the mirror.
none of them are the right size.
i hide them in the basement & at night
when you come sleep over.
i hear the scratching.

swedish princess cake

at night i've been watching baking
shows. it reminds me of sitting
with my mom at the breakfast bar
in my parent's house.

we especially liked iron chef
& whatever else came on before
& after. we wrote recipes on
the counter & the arms of the sofa.

That looks good.
Wow look at that. 
We should make those.

the chefs bodies are frantic, 
they're on a time limit. 
they sweat in their white aprons.

tonight they're making 
Swedish Princess Cake & their
bodies know what to do, 
the measurements like another language.

they speak into the bowl
with 2/3 cups & tongues of teaspoon
& table. they know what a Swedish
Princess Cake by instinct & they move
fingers over green marzipan

i haven't used the oven in my
new apartment yet. i keep
telling everyone that i love
baking & then i come home
& crawl into it

i don't know how to make 
a Swedish Princess Cake.

the oven is cold & metal & 
dragon-like. 

i bring a pillow
with me & turn on the television
in the living room &

watch the bakers move
from a cookie sheet inside 

& they come
out, rushing onto
the tile kitchen floor

they bang pots & pans,
they throw open the cabinets
in search of ingredients
for Swedish Princess Cake,

where is the vanilla extract?
the powdered sugar?
the heavy cream?

i hold still & watch
they write my a poem 
in my cups of flour 

& butter sticks,

melting gently from the heat
of all our bodies in the kitchen.

i tell them i haven't baked 
in so long & they pre-heat 
the oven,

put me inside & i come
out just right.

i curl up on the plate & 
they layer me. raspberry jam
& pastry cream, light & airy
& beige. 

upstairs

my neighbors upstairs 
are loud late at night.
their mouths leave bruises 
on my bed sheets. sucker fish
or fists. i count backwards
from 100 & start over again.
the numbers sit in between their
words like rosary beads or birds
on the chain link fence outside. 
they speak a language 
i don't understand
so i have to make up 
what they're saying. they're
saying beautiful things,
they're talking about
the boy down stairs who drives
an evergreen volvo & takes
the trash out late at night
on sundays. they love him,
they want to invite him
over & introduce him to everyone.
i respond & tell them
that i want to know them too,
put on my grey slippers 
& my robe. it's so late that
the alarm clocks have rolled over.
i stand outside their door 
& they welcome me. they've been
impatient, speaking louder &
louder in the hopes that i
would overhear.
we eat milano cookies &
their children walk on
the ceiling. they still speak 
a language i don't understand,
i let the words ripple over 
me like a cloud of winged insects,
glinting & twitching. 
we sit at the table & 
the man's wife makes popcorn
on the stove & i tell it's fancy
but she also doesn't understand 
the language that i speak.
we eat & everything gets stuck 
in my teeth. sun coming in
the blinds, i notice
they're all gone. i touch
the walls of their house
& discover it is much
the same as mine, crawling
back into bed with the covers
pulled around me, i blink 
& hear their plum pounding
voice again-- the blotches 
in my blankets, their voices.
this time i say they're praying. 

support the troops 

all the troops.
the father troops & neighbor troops
& classmate troops & grocery store troops
don't forget the grandfather troops
(who come back just to chew 
their purple hearts
in the kitchen) troops aren't supposed
to get hungry. naughty troops
all these troops,
look here they come now, the fresh ones,
they're crawling up on the shore
where they lay their eggs 
alongside the sea turtles,
they strain, crying to blink
the sand out of their eyes.
the troops are beautiful
the troops are natural. their eggs
are ammunition-- the sound 
of an air raid siren-- all red-loud.
when the troops are done being being
mothers that's when we get our the gold
to celebrate them. celebrate the troops,
ladle after ladle of fatty bubbling gold
& platinum-- they're hungry so they drink,
greedy troops, lips quivering with metal.
heavy troops, sinking into the sand
the eggs old enough now to ask questions,
to want college degrees, to want a good gun
to be fired from. the troops have eyes
that rolls over & the families come
to the shore & put diamonds in their sockets
(sometimes shells if they're a poor family).
they stick flags in the ground around their bodies,
take pictures & post them on Facebook.
we love the troops.this is a good troop 
loving sunday, yes? what beautiful troops. 
they did a good job. we, the families pack
up the SUVs, put on a TV for the kids 
in the back. eat bologna sandwiches
from the blue cooler.

skin

last night i scratched my arm
open into a door way, went inside
& found a second room with nothing
but a mattress on the floor--
the rash had grown door knobs before
but not like this. my arm spoke,
it asked me where i would go when 
i was all alone & left with just
my own nails & an urge to feel peace. 
i'm reminded of poison ivy,
the way it finger painted itself
up my dad's legs in the summer,
i dip my hands in & cover myself.
skin turning angry & red-- pink 
a field of strawberries, i plant
the seeds in my wrists & grow extra digits.
the room with the mattress is cold
& i lay on the hard wood floor.
i ask god what he wants to do with me
& he sends an angel to tie 
my hands behind my back. the angel 
sings as he works & i squirm. he says
that we just have to wait it out,
that i just need to be patient 
& avoid the temptation of doors. 
flesh turned pandora on me & inside
i feel all the beautiful evils,
the strawberries, the finger nails
culling my arms for fruit. i want
to be left alone to fall into an 
infinite number of small vacant rooms.
give me an arm chair in the next one
so that i can sit upright while
i wait for morning to come. 
the angel just watches, shakes
his head & perches in the corner.
he is also a strawberry but he won't
admit it. i grow desperate for a mirror
& i cry onto the floor into
a puddle so that i can have a look 
at myself. my body all ornamented 
in rash-- decorated in blemishes,
i don't need to be lovely
but i do want my skin to stop 
it with its so many mouths,
always talking, begging to be 
torn open-- of wrapping paper 
i've been a birthday & an orange
peel-- juice spurting on the floor.
the angel pasts the bed & encourages
me to sleep. i give in after some
protesting & my own bed returns
in my own room. the sun rises first in
my bones-- surfacing on skin--
red & tempting. could i sleep
my way into another body?
the angel is a pigeon
on the windowsill.

broccoli & cauliflower 

august steams the trees
in the park into broccoli 
so you & i go out with our
craft scissors & cut off 
the florets, holding them
like warm bouquets all 
the walk home. 

i confess that i'm scared 
of cauliflower because 
i'm not sure where
it comes from. i imagine
them growing on the bottom
of the ocean, the deep 
white reaches where no light
can go--there the cauliflower 
serve as flowers for evil fish,
their gnashing teeth & their 
sharp edges. 

i trust broccoli more.
dad says if you leave broccoli
in the sink with water that it
will bloom into little yellow flowers,
this happened a few times before
& still every time i eat the broccoli 
i imagine it blooming all inside me,
we open our mouth & check
each other's throats for yellow.

late in the night
i go down to the fridge, bare foot.
i think of waking you up, but 
decide to go alone. i rummage,
i crawl inside on hands & knees,
listening to the hum 
of the cold white sun.
i find a head of cauliflower 
& feast, instantly flung to
the depths of the atlantic 

& there i think of all
of us, everyone at the kitchen table,
our forks poised & the salt
& the pepper chirping & flapping
their wings. what odd animals 
this all is. i chew & i turn 
all blank, the color washing
our into the water, the yellow
flowers pouring out my mouth
like air bubbles. 

in the park you bite
the side of a tree without me.
i shout from the water
but you're too hungry  to listen.
you bring the broccoli home
for the family like a good
child does. my body feeds
the evil fish.

babysitters 

i have several babysitters
& i don't know any of their names.
they're very beautiful & young,
all of them. i didn't know
i would be getting anymore
babysitters & then they started
arriving, coming to sit beside
me in the living room. they asked
me if i'd eaten dinner & if i 
wanted us to order pizza. 
the babysitter knocked on 
the big window & opened it,
in came pizzas, hot & fresh.
she brings napkins, this one does.
it makes sense though, because
i also don't remember any of 
my babysitters names from
when i was small. there was
one girl with bouncy curly hair
& we ate bagels on the porch 
in the summer. another one 
was good at playing stuffed 
animals. do they think about me
still? do they not remember
my name either? in their memory
do i exist as a girl with 
vanilla pudding fingers &
a bob haircut? 
the babysitters don't understand
privacy. they follow me around
the house & one pulls
up a chair to watch me while
i fall asleep. i ask her why
she doesn't go home & she
nods her head & smiles. 
another babysitter walks
up & down the staircase all
night long. i hear the wince
of each stair & they feel as
if they're my vertebrae. 
i went to leave the house yesterday
& the babysitters assembled,
they laid themselves
in front of the door & sobbed,
they pleaded with me not to go.
i told that i promised i would 
be back & that i would bring
them cake pops if they were good
& stopped throwing a fit. 
this calms them down a bit.
i had one babysitter who liked
to take us to Ruby Tuesdays so
that we could fake one of
our birthdays & get a slice
of freezer-burned cake. i always
felt guilty, blew out the candle.
when i came home i brought 
the babysitters a blank sheet cake.
at first they wouldn't look look at me,
pouting about my absence, but, as i
sliced the cake they warmed up,
i said that it could be
all of their birthdays as long
as it wasn't mine. we each stepped
onto the white surface of the cake
& the babysitters took to lighting 
each other's hair on fire. 
i didn't try to stop them.
i stepped back & blew them out
& closed their eyes.

To Will who sat next to me on the train & read me a poem

i want to be your pockets
& what you keep in them. 

i want to be the subway 
that's taking you back some door
made of zippers & buttons,

i would empty myself
of all other passengers &
tell you that you are safe now
& that no one can make
you older.

you will stay on this
train forever & 
read aloud a poem 
that's printed out 
& folded four times
into a square.

i want to be where you 
crease that page, 
my knees & elbows
folded & re-folded,
you will never have to fold
that is my job.

Will, can you tell me
why the lights underground
are always orange?

Can you tell me what the
last book you read was
& what you did with
the flyleaf pages?

you make me want to 
give up my life as a poet
& live in subway carts
to find you again, to ask
you what your parents names are
& what the first poem
you wrote was.

i fall down the cement steps
on Christopher street
like a dead bird & 
i jump down on the tracks,

not for the train to 
hit me but for the train
to eat me.

all that metal, 
we were in all that metal
moving fast towards
some doors.

i think the first poem
i wrote when i was probably
eight was about butterflies
& color blue.

our train cart fills with
them, with butterflies
all made of words.

they land on our faces
& we can no longer
tell who is younger or
older or coming or going.

if i read my poem to you on
the train would you have
listened to me?

i think you would have,
& you'd tell me to keep writing
& to never be older 
& to be safe 
& to feel the lining
of your pockets 
& to fold the poem 
another time

girls roller-skating

a bowl full of rainbow light
on the rink's hard-wooden floor

that winter
you took me roller skating

on a monday night
& no one else was there.

just a snack stand man
& the shadowy human who 

chose the music from 
the booth near the rink.

we protested him to change 
songs but he never responded,

just shifted in the dark of 
the booth. he might not have been real.
you were effortless, gliding
around & around, kicking 
the lights with your wheels;
a vehicle of skin

all the while i inched slowly, 
gripping the wall as i went, watching 

your acrobatics. your smoothness,
like a cake-topper in motion.

ankle-deep in sugar-frosting
& food-dye flowers

you came & grabbed my forearms,
tugged me out to the center

where the disco ball 
hung, a ripe unknown fruit,

your blue eyes turning into
wheels to escape away with me,

& i knew full well that we were
supposed to be girls & that this 

was what we were meant to do.
i got the momentum; side to side

each leg like the tongue of a clock,
sweaty & straining to make 

the skates embrace the awkward 
7th grade body they held up.

i sometimes still wake up with 
the skates on,
the shoelaces don't come untied
so i just have to shuffled,
clutching counters in my house, & 
there's no disco ball just 

a ceiling fan. the wheels like 
to laugh at me-- they have girl-voices. 

the human in booth plays the same 
songs still, only now they're in the corner 

of my kitchen. these mornings i wish 
you were here to steady me.