the mice come 
to stack me,
33 vertebrae counted 
aloud as i wake
up next to you. 
it's a purple kind
of thing that 
another person's
body can make you
so much more aware
of your own. 
before bed i take 
each segment of
my spine out
& wash them in 
the kitchen sink
with the blue soap 
that smells
like thumb prints 
& lavender. 
my brother still
leaves Legos on 
the living room
floor even though
he's grown up
& moved away.
is his skeleton
colors & plastic 
like mine?
i hope he builds
biplanes with
the pieces. 
i assemble a miniature
house with
my bones &
i don't show you
or anyone. 
it's a little
gruesome, 
what with 
the rose petal marrow
holding it all
together. sometimes i
walk up your body 
like a staircase to 
an attic 
full of old toys.
tell me
what beanie baby
is eating
the flowers 
on the porch?
i suspect 
the ostrich.
do they have
spines like us?
yes, of course
& the snake is
all green & 
leads down to
the cellar. 
the mice are
good workers
but always hungry.
i kiss 
the bricks 
of your back.
tell me, 
love, are there
banisters in us?
is the attic 
full of boxes?
sore worry
stone pocket 
boy as i am.
those wooden
stairs down to
the shore 
will one day rot
from being
so close to 
salt & water. 
when i fall
apart i hope
it's into 
the Atlantic
or a tangle
of covers 
wrapped around
you. the mice
are good people,
let's trust them.
it's morning
anyway.

tiny pieces of glass

I.
we broke the wine glasses one by one.
they were too tall, stiletto heel aunts 
on the top shelf of the cabinet. they 
wore grape juice in their hair & drank 
the morning away. orange juice bellies,
sire-laughing: we tried to ignore them. orchid 
necks & their circling kisses. they traced us.
mom would try to catch them-- she could hear them
dropping from rooms away, running, she
would never make it in time. glass eye lashes
& jagged teeth. the wine glass's real face
a pile of knives-- a garden of incisions.
we wore shoes in the kitchen for weeks
& still found tiny pieces of glass. a game.
soft clink, i collected the slivers in 
the open face of an oyster shell in my room. 
they sang opaque songs & kept me awake. 

II.
the project of re-essembly began on 
the night when we broke the last one. she screamed
& we took paper towels the ground to remove
her body. each furious section. some parts were as thin
as my aunt. her finger nails stained blood purple. 
the smashed glass tried to sprout into roses but
i made sure to collect them, cutting myself
on the thorns. no that's cliche, you can do better.
i used the night light & began to join
the fragments together, no glue necessary. 
they desired a body so much. wiping the blood on my jeans.
there was only one enough for one glass 
& she cried so long. i filled her with water, drinking
by the counter to quiet her down. winced & found
a tiny piece of glass in my foot. i pulled it 
out with the tweezers in the bathroom. the sound
of the glass throwing herself to the floor, the cracking
of the house. more shards to find in the driveway.
more treasure. a front door in my heel,
someone running.

children 

ocean born, organelle moon.
when we talk about children 
i always imagine them as jellyfish.
i walk down the stairs into 
microscope images of their cells.
the thin wires of their new bodies like
trapeze. balance & listen.
free of heart & veins.
what a relief to be without blood.
the neon silence. is there enough water?

they come in through the open bed room
window & hover just below the ceiling
until we take them down: pull them
by the tentacles. a cluster 
of helium balloons. it'll be
hard to name them.

in the bath tube after they're
asleep we'll wash each other's
stings. their pneumatocysts are
automatic, we can't blame them for
the scars: red licorice rope 
thrashes-- i trace yours until
they don't hurt anymore.
are we good parents? 

they get bigger (as all children do).
the size of a room-- their bell
ringing all night long. do you
want an ocean? i don't have an ocean
to give you. 

on better nights i read aloud  
from the book of saints like 
my own mother did. the children settle down,
breathe slow & fall asleep
between words. the story of
saint lucy & her eyes on the plate
reminds me to wash the dishes.

i wonder if they're happy.
if they've eaten enough. 
the smoothness of their bodies.
i won't be my mother. i won't.

they arrived so tiny, like thimbles.
keep their baby pictures
in the basement to walk  back into,
the tight ropes-- undulating 
in memory. don't leave yet,
i'm not done. 






 

into wild beasts*

seven pork chops
under crock pot lid, each of them
once a fat tongue down my throat.
the red taste of barbecue.
i love a man who grovels into the the body of a goat.
all hoof & knee-- the pen of men who thought
they could fuck me. the trees are
made of meat. i want you to eat.
only girls get to devour
in front of me. if we don't
consume than what is this all
for? give him room to plead
before you do. this is the hand
you use to grab him by
the ears. a lion's heart
is similar to a peach left
to go soft in the heat. reach into 
the chest like a handbag. 
he's full of credit cards &
pocket watches. if he has 
gold make sure you take it off 
before you turn him-- it's 
the flushed face that does it.
i want to bite him open
like an apple, the stem a neck bone.
there is nothing more delicious
than listening to anger turn
to growl. a vicious boy--
there's so many teeth in a wolf's
head to pluck out. a turkey
in the oven. the hunks of
cow in the freezer. this won't
last a winter but there's
always another bad man,
isn't there? oh girl
spend your love on the walls
of a house. the trees are made 
of meat. men like honey &
a pottage of cheese. 
a table set for dinner. 
there will always be more. 

*Circe was the goddess of magic and sorcery 
Through the use of these and a magic wand or staff, 
she transformed her enemies, or those who offended her, 
into wild beasts.

youth group on Sunday nights 

was where God made himself 
into a can
of soda & shook.

his baptism in the kiddie pool,
leftover lip girl. rice in the mouth of
the end of summer came down & spilled me.
looking for the paper towels. girls
made for plastic drinking cups, me.
write a name on your forehead,
not your name though.

everyone in the bible has 
more than  one name, he gets
to call you what he wants.

Our Father was outside: a moth
biting the orange porch light. 
(we always knew they had teeth).
Hail Mary: a grub in the damp lawn,
her body see through, christ:
an unnameable organ. 

i had never been  more afraid 
then when we would pray. a lack 
of certainty, like opening
the front door to a house before
it is yours. fumbling with a key
while a mail box watches.

the catholic girl is a kind of
parable for believing 
in ghosts. she eats god every week.
is a flesh made of flesh eating flesh.
he will ask you another time--

he will save you again & again
in the ways you never wanted. 
he checks your skin for ash,
rubs it off with his thumb.
this is love. 

lifting hands i imagined swallowing
a dove & letting it thrash in 
my throat. kissing him & 
his whole body filling with feathers.

would he float up? would god
then finally open his damn mouth 
& tell us that he love love loved
the kids gathered in the top room
of a church. bags of pretzels.

the incense pours without warning,
out my mouth. angry rose & frankincense.
smoke beating wings. he will
hold you in the back seat. he will
smell your neck & say you're beautiful. 

halo

set your glass on the table,
i want it to leave a ring, a halo.
when you leave i'll trace my finger
around it till it hums like the rim
of a crystal glass. i'll take
the spatula from the counter &
peel it off. thin & airy. a bracelet
a bracket. new rings for a new
planet not so much like saturn.
quieter & the size of an apple
or, if we're ambitious, a watermelon.
you trace me like this, in circles.
a pink chalk outline.
a ring around the rosary. i'm falling
down in a pile of pillows, 
ll of which remind me that i am 
a circular being. that each body 
has a circumference. when you sleep
i take out the measuring tape
to account for yours. your waist, 
35 inches. when i wear
the halo no one notices besides
the people who make 
stained glass windows. they 
ask me if i'm  a saint &
if i am, if i'm a martyr. i don't
answer. i let them glue the glass
into place. the window 
to the bedroom now a kaleidoscope murmur.
i want more. i want more halos.
i get a glass of water before bed,
fill it in the bathroom sink.
i use the stepping stool. 
my mother lingers in the doorway.
the acolyte. the halos hung
out on the clothes line & from
coat hangers in the closet. 
i was as careful with them as 
i was with my first pairs 
of panties. frills & sex. 
the color red.
if she catches you she'll throw
them away. use the jewelry box.
all alone i sometimes
lay the halos on my chest. i feel
their movement. they are mischevious
ghosts. they ask about slashing 
bike tires &
snapping plastic crowns. 
where does god come in? no,
he just lets halos happen. 
you could call me a deist. 
they tell me to orbit you, 
i do i do. closer?
not a comet. a mouth gag
a blind fold. your mouth 
a wonderful halo that i want 
to fall into. oh rosary,
each bead as the teeth.
a hail mary, a halo for
mary. i'm here to keep us holy.
i put the halo on your head
& play with your hair. 

I am sorry. I'm sorry
i'm sorry. i'm sorry i'm sorry.
iamb starry. i'm starry. 
i'm starving. i'm starring.
i'm starting. i'm parting
& marking & sorry. i am marring.
martyring. partitioning. pardoning.
i'm sorry. i'm party & parking.
where you put the glass. a halo
hollowing. the crust of pizza--
the 12th slice. mozzarella 
making-- pull me loose & sorry.
& sorry & sorry & Satre-ing. 
summoning, spilling the table.
window-silling & sorry.
sunning & marty with his hat
on backwards. as sorry
as watercolor & suddenly 
starting. i'm starry & stunning.
i'm starting & starting & 
sorry. was it a party without
me? of course & partly 
a part-made. the pocket
pracking, the sorry. the sorry
that i am, the iamb as 
ungrateful. The Sorry. oh god
mother starry as a pin
in my teeth. of dead
fish in the reef, the starry
blood tucked beneath,
my god my Sorry. i'm sorry
i'm sorry. I am sorry 
for this. 

Ixodes ricinus

pulse-push & sweet. the becoming place.
all over. all all over. the world is warm
& pink & delicious. the creases &
the folds. let us get lost in the water.
let us drink ourselves dead. a search
on the surface. my lover, i may not
return but i will have gone out as
fat as mars. red on the inside. 
the tall grass grows on the chest
of a great sleeping dog. the green.
the straw. the thrash. find your own
luscious places. bury your head &
think of me as you consume. fear has
a flavor & it is metallic. i have 
swallowed so much. how many times can
we do this game? how many times 
can we return after stealing
the essences of other bodies? 
do you feel the pounding like i do?
the heart, somehow inside you now?
a knocking planet-- all over all over.
fabric folding-- the hem-- the hands.
i like behind the ears or the knees.
a quiet place. a quiet purple place.
think of me, darling, think of me full.
imagine the surface of my body as
taut as a blueberry, my teeth 
crusting over from the sugar.  
i wait till the monster sleeps.
till there is a current of quiet--
a caress to be made. parasitiformes:
the guilty children. engorged & 
limping away. as i drift off here i 
wish the same for you. i wish 
ripe pink body. un-stirring &
willing. the flow of juice 
from the mouth as you let go.
oh i can see you now. sleep
with me then in amber. the tall
tall tall grass. the trash.
come back. come back.

bananas in the kitchen 

the back of the cast iron pan,
smashes each tarantula into an 
asterisk. are there more?
i check the cabinets & 

& the other sides of my hands.
dad, searching our skin all 
over for ticks. the tall grass
like the bristles of a mother

broom. dad told the story
that when he worked in the supermarket
that sometimes tarantulas would
come through in the banana boxes.

passengers, their their fangs
poised like knitting needles. 
what quilt? i try to let them outside.
have winter undo them instead of me. 

that's cowardly, i know. i freeze.
the creatures legs across skin--
scratchy like the stubble on my uncle's
face. spiders don't like the sensation

of breathing. i hold my breath.
i check behind my ears for ticks 
& i know tarantulas don't drink blood
but i have to ask the creatures again

to be sure. i turn over the bananas
in the dim light of the kitchen.
the sink dripping. i survey the fruit
over eight times & on the eighth 

inspection, find a spider. she 
grips tightly to the peel. she's lost
trust in the color yellow. 
she tells stories of Colombia:

the height of a tree. the heat 
of the afternoon. crawling between
banana bunches. i've learned to peel
myself when necessary. dad would

take a knife to the neck. 
strip by strip. the pale flesh underneath.
ripe-- the legs of the tarantula--
the weakness of sugar. i chew

slowly. the tarantulas amble
across the walls. one step at a time:
piano fingers. dad isn't home &
i close my eyes. swallow.

should you trust them?
hold still.

17 uses for a parasol

1.
when you want to feel like a girl again 
2.
when you need a roof that's less heavy.
when the ceiling is a skull & you
want a wall of gills. never
push water through. collect the shingles
from the backyard in a plastic bucket
just to watch them turn into teeth.
don't put them under a pillow.
3.
for when you need to be older.
for rolling your shoulders back.
for knowing the taste of red wine 
& driving back that night on your own
4.
at night, when there isn't a sign
of the sun anymore.
when you don't want the moon
to be following you. when you're 
too big for a stone-mother &
a seat belt.
5.
so fuck the ocean
6.
a lid to the jar of apricot jam
7.
for a bed alone.
where his body is just a collection
of brick-filled pillows
8.
when there is bruises & when 
the bruises crust over-- sugary 
& caramel. when he tells you
that you taste like raisins.
9.
when you walk by the creek 
& the mulberries turn to
mush on the pavement
10.
when you have siblings.
all of them acorns. a ceramic
bowl by the door. collect them.
11.
for shade when there's no
fig trees.
12.
as a vessel to carry your 
broken acrylic nails. 
drop them off the dock.
13.
collecting
barnacles & sea glass--
tearing in the process
14.
a place to keep your bones,
to work them into spokes--
long & thin-- the flesh 
stretched between. 
15.
for treating the tears in
your skin like mouths. for walking 
through them & eating the sun with 
the big spoon-- a hot &
furious pudding. for gills. 
16.
for taking his tongue the
last time he kisses you. 
for putting it under your pillow.
1.
for when you need to be a girl again
1.
for when you open the pocket knife
17.
for keeping the sun off your
face when it's july & your body 
is a half of a fig. hold the
acorns just long enough 
to feel a pulse. & when you
open your parasol you will not
be safe from anything. 
isn't that beautiful?