the life cycle

late in the night i 
come apart amphibially,
a pile of frogs eggs,

each one heartbeat throbbing 
in the sheets.  

i want you to

put your hands in me.

a jar of apricot jam.

soft planets. the embryo eyes
flicking, 

the world of commas.

all night the life cycle goes
& you watch as i become 

a floor full of tadpoles,
thrashing & gill gasping,

put me in your mouth
to carry me to the bathroom,

all my bodies swimming

i taste like rain.

i would do the same for you.
don't swallow, not yet at least.

let the frogs go free though,
all over the house
& back to wet themselves
in the tub. 

i just need to use my legs,

starting with just one limb
at a time, their growth like 
pulling carrots from dirt,

don't watch me, this is personal

then again i watch you 

getting dressed, the way

you roll up your socks 
before pulling them on

don't you ever want to spend
the night like this?

it's only because i can't sleep

i promise 

i want to say i'm not usually
like this but i am

i'm a wet merry-go-round body

& at some point all the fronts 
break like jars of marbles

back into eggs.

the whole process takes about an hour.

i'm sorry.

i'm sorry i really am this isn't
your job.

you pick me up & take me back to bed,
piling the eggs up,

get some rest before 
i get up again,

wrap your arms around them,

soft & warm &
quiet

go to sleep now
you whisper

& the first egg swells,
the tadpoles coming back,

spilling on the wood floor.

i go all night. 

barefoot on the porch 
i find her,
hair following her like a wedding train.

st. clair tells me she can see the ghosts
of people's hair & that mine is so long
that it goes down the basement steps.

i rub her feet till she can feel them again.
she also doesn't eat meat & so 
we have microwave veggie burgers;
chickpea & pesto. 

her hair keeps growing & she tells
me that she hates it, that she hates
how long she's let it grow.

the more upset, the more it swells--
great curls & loops & knots.

i tell her that i want to help her
cut it off & she says that she cut it
first for god 

after she left she wanted it to grow
so that someone new might want to 
love her.

No one new came,

hair monstrous & un-tamable.

she kneels over the waste basket
& i get out the hair clippers,
the gentle buzzing across scalp.
as i shave her hair it turns into milk,

droplets in the sink
just like mine on the floor
of the salon.

the first time i shaved my hair short
it felt like peeling all the boys' fingers 
off of my skull, all the times 
men had yanked, 
made leashes of me,
turned fatty & liquid

we finish &
her head is bristly,
an early june peach.

i tell her she needs to shave 
mine too, closer this time,

i tell her to take off the top
layer of skin,

plum red & vein,

she digs pits from my skull,

so many for one fruit,
her fingers stained & bloody.

she keeps apologizing as she

drops them in the trash.

i ask about my ghost hair
& she says no to worry about it
so i ask again & she admits
that it's so long that it 
dips in the ocean, fondles 
the sea weed on the north shore

closing my eyes
i feel the light pull

he holds me 

i say 
i want it off-- 
i want it off 

fly

i get off the train at
an un-named station

i lied, i eat the name,
break off each letter like
a graham cracker. i didn't
want you to know where i'd gone.

there's these huge tall buildings
with rows & rows of windows 
i'm convinced no one lives inside.

climbing ivy draped fences & 
over rubber tire graveyards
i get to an empty street--

the watch on my wrist turns 
over in protest, plucks off 
its own eye-lash arms

so i find the entrance to
one of those buildings
& i go up to the very top 
floor, because where else
would i go?

each room with a white 
air conditioner still holding
on to the window-- i push them
out in the hopes that they'll
sprout wings when they fall

the first one thuds below
& i'm sorry for asking so much
of it but it's going to
be winter soon & the air conditioners
need to adapt, this is tough love

i'm reminded of the time that
we traded stories of the times
we felt most cold, i told you 
i was on the ferry from staten island
& you said you were sitting in your jeep
in january waiting for it to warm up

if i was there i would have 
wrapped myself around you
a scarf or a knit hat--

i don't give up, each room 
thrusting the air conditioners out,
saying

come on, don't you want to fly?

they're tired, i assume, or lonely,
considering there's no one living there

down below the wounded ones crawl
on all fours, they speak gravelly 
to each other

they trade tall tales about
the people who lived in their rooms

all lies, beautiful lies,
the best kinds of lies

finally, in the last room on
the floor i thrust one out 
& the wings come, they're made of 
saran wrap & months of swallowed
dust particles

i ask the air conditioner
to take me with it, but it's already
gone, it weeps as it flies
over the others 
(or maybe that's
just the condensation)

i don't tell you about any of this.
at the train stop i tell you
the same story again about
being cold & red on the ferry,
the wind made of broken
graham crackers.

when you fall asleep that night
i pick you up & throw you 
out the window,

you don't sprout wings. 

i turned my eyes into marbles
so i could toss them, let them roll 
to the front of the train car,

smacking into each other.

is it so wrong to want to be lonely?

i needed to look somewhere other than at us.

& on the walk home i 
thought about how when we love anyone 
we try to make humans out of them,

wait till they're sleeping 
so they're more willing, kneel 
over their body & steal their 
joints for door hinges

plucking out their marbles 
& burying them in the backyard 

so we can say-- only i really 
see you, only me only me

i wipe my brown irises off 
in the train station bathroom sink,
blow drying them to put back in--

you looked beautiful you know that?

i want to make you swallow
the marbles so i can look inside

i imagine you full of 
sugar caverns & slides

what kind of human do you
see in me?

& without this 

what kind of human do i see me as

i think i'm coming apart on
the page

all my blood replaced
with wording

i do it exceptionally 
well, i do it so it feels like hell

that's Sylvia talking

i chew the marbles myself,
they pop like grapes 

& i curl up

a handful of something,

my insides are all train stations

a ball-pit full of eyes,

too many too see anything

doorbell & drywall 

when the pipes crack in the walls
you ask me what monsters move through them.

i find a stethoscope & press it to the drywall, 
the house shivering under it's cold touch.

that's when the doorbell rings & rings
& rings & rings. i tell you we don't

need to get it. that it's nothing.
outside on the porch i'm standing there

in a halloween costume. don't let me in
i'm too old for all of this. there's a

great white shark, pacing, lurking in 
the pipes, that's more pressing, don't

answer the door. all this swimming,
the banging, a school of eels all squeezing,

stuffing themselves in the arteries
of the house. a whole ocean. we sit

listening & you whisper that you'd
like to go inside-- in side the pipes,

live tight as corridor. door bell again.
stay put, i say & i got tell myself to 

go home & put on normal clothing.
when i come back you've already gone 

i hear pacing, walls warping with 
your weight in the pipes. you run

from sea monsters, the basement kraken
with it's beak biting at your heels.

i come after you through the faucet that's
always dripping, but before i do

i stick my finger down my own throat 
to ring myself like a doorbell,

reaching, i turn myself inside out, 
my halloween costume, all gill & vein. 

there, the water is quiet now. i find you 
knotted in kelp. i kiss you till 

you come loose, the bubbles becoming
tuna as they come out your mouth.

we spend the night there in the pipes
& tell each other stories of our old

halloween costumes. the doorbell keeps
ringing, but we learn to ignore it. 

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.