the old woman who lived in the shoe

licorice veins unpeeled from ankles,
i knelt to take my chuck taylors off. 
some body parts are re-usable-- make shift even. 
my shoe laces are too long so i have to
wrap them twice before knotting them &
each time i do i hear my first grade teacher
scolding me again for just tying them in
too many knots. we'd hate to come undone.
i don't know the little rhyme anymore
about bunny ears. shoot the rabbit &
hang the pelt from the closet door--
laces-- thick as boas-- their girth 
crawling on the bedroom walls.
the old woman who lived in a shoe,
the one from the nursery rhymes-- she knocks
at my door again. i tell her she should bother
my father considering he has much bigger feet
than me. a little girl again i plant both
soles in one of his black converse-- the laces
growing teeth to dig into my calves. 
i cover my mouth so as to not wake
anyone up-- there's always someone sleeping.
the old woman is followed by all her children--
as we know, she had so many that she didn't know
what to do & i surely didn't know what to do either.
if i'd opened the door they'd have rushed in--
no stopping them. they need a place to stay for
the night. the canvas tongues admonish me
for not being more generous. acid holes in
my father's white socks are where i escaped
from. he sits on a rocking chair suspended 
just above the ceiling. he wears the same shoes
he did to all family occasions-- the versatile
black chuck taylors. i tell him that the day is
over & both of us can take off our shoes--
he stares forward-- rubbing his hands across 
his sore feet. i catch his ankles when they fall
off & hand them back up to him. the last few months
i think my feet have been growing-- the shoes
rejecting them-- slinking back into the closet.
i assume they wanted me to let the old woman in.
one of these days, maybe. i just don't have
enough room. there's just not enough room.

the foxes are having a wedding

turn off the flash
i said to god as he snapped a 
picture of me pulling back into
the driveway last night. he's so
damn sentimental sometimes with
the thunder & the polaroids. 
i wasn't looking very photogenic,
but then again, who is?
all yesterday, he knelt down from
a fickle cloud, telling me i should 
visit home more. you didn't notice
even though his voice is booming
& nothing like my father's. that was
when you said that sometimes they
say "the foxes are having a wedding"
when there's sun showers like that.
adding that they also say "the devil
is beating his wife." i prefer the
foxes but i assume that both are
happening at the same time. back in bed 
with the lights out i asked god what
he does with the photographs. he lamented 
that despite his best efforts to plan 
the lives of humans that he regretted 
how short he made things. he snapped 
another photograph & the clouds rumbled
like boulder aching against boulder.
he said he was just getting to know
me & already i don't say my prayers &
already i don't pose for pictures.
still, he pins the photographs on the
wall at the far end of his bedroom above
his desk-- a wall infinitely tall & wide
& it's still not big enough to fit us all.
he frustrated me, peering in the window
what with all the things he could be doing
to fix the world. i often hear people
my age ask if there is a god, then why
is the world like this?
he's out there, i know, trying to make 
me last longer. afflicted with nostalgia;
that's where i get that from. 
there's so much right now to take in.
after all, the foxes had a wedding today.
the devil beat his wife, which was,
as we know, not out of the ordinary.

water under the bridge

i went to sit on the rocks 
beneath the overpass 
where the perkiomen trails touches
the river bank. took off my flip flops 
to step between them barefoot--
grey mud on my toes. i was thinking
of all the times we'd been there--
me & you & you. the august afternoons
freshman year when we clapped gnats
out of the air. the boys who 
threatened to drown me. last time
i asked if you wanted to dip your
feet in the water & you said "no"
which was terribly disappointing. 
i only like boys who wade in rivers
& girls who catch crayfish in their teeth.
that was me. i found old dresses between
the rocks & over head the sound of
cars driving over the bridge echoes 
against the water-- a wail-- a yowl.
the asphalt is your fault-- the kind
of heat in heaven. underneath 
the bridge it's cool. pulled the
altar out from the trunk of my volvo:
took matches from my pocket & lit one candle 
for all of us. a runner's feet 
crunched across the gravel trail behind me.
is there no where to be alone?
yes we will find one-- someday. it rained
too much & the water was wild & brown.
i put my feet in, but mostly just to prove
to you how lovely it would have been.
i pray by the candle that there's
no river monsters today-- seeing 
rows of teeth blinking just out 
of sight. i pray that if the river
eats me that it will at least me quick
about it-- that it will remember us.
a little ways down we start to congregate--
the memories coming down to the river
to baptize themselves for good-- wading in.
i don't try to stop them but i watch as 
all my different bodies submerge. 
i'm moving to another state in 10 days.
i won't need those anymore-- the bodies
i mean. with their skirts & floral dresses.
kissing a stone, mud on my mouth
i snuff out the candle with my thumb.
a 16 wheeler howls overhead. i ask
god to keep the bridge steady-- just
a moment longer & if it were to crush me,
to make me a crayfish in her teeth.

I.
fingers turned to white meat-- the breading
crumbling off on the back seat of
Uncle Rich's yellow Ford focus. grease 
stain through skin-- through paper bag.
at home on  the kitchen counter he 
urged me to dip my feet-- wade 
slowly into the plastic sauce containers--
lips metallic & peeled. i dipped fingers--
licked clean. spoonful & spoonful.  
chicken-nugget kneed we picked each other 
up to dunk. careful with me i'm full
the bees humming vulgar cayenne & vinegar. 
tripping into the salad-- white dress damp 
with mayonnaise. paper 
napkins pleating calla lily. be a careful girl
if you eat. 
II. 
my forehead broke out in a rash
the day after confirmation-- the oils
on my forehead frying under church lights.
i broke the breading off my body in the shower--
removed from knuckles-- bare white chicken
breast underneath. less calories that way.
i usually lie & say i don't like
dressings or sauces. she said i did that too.
salt & pepper under finger nails. 
there were two cruets of honey mustard 
dressing on the table & the bishop told me to
look up at him, which was odd, because
we were sitting in the restaurant booth & not
a church. i refused so he poured them both 
over my head. at least none got in my mouth. 
in the bathroom i washed off my face but
the sink was dressing too. porcelain bowl
brimming honey mustard. give in.

ambiance lighting

all of us were there--
in one of those booth seats--
the ones shaped like a C so 
the people in the middle can't get out.
you're unfamiliar to me-- 
the bodies on either side gone blank--
menus up to cover their faces.
i ask what family we are today 
& no one answers but the waiter 
who seems to be made of gnats. 
ambiance lighting & the amber glow
of wall sconces-- i ask you
all if it's getting darker-- 
no response just the turning of
pages. we went out for my birthday
a few days ago & everyone ate cheesecake--
dug into the slices with their fingernails.
are there forks & knives? is this
a spoon or a wrist bone? the restaurant
growing darker just as the plates
hit the table & i feel around to try 
to find me salad. no one remembered
a flashlight. we should be more
prepared whoever we are. they're
collecting our menus-- did i order
the steak with dad this time? 
careful the dishes are warm.
reaching out i put my hand into
a plate of shrimp scampi-- the sealife
wriggling away & out the back door
to have a smoke on the curb. 
i never remember what i ordered?
a salad? yes a salad to be safe--
with the dressing on the side like
a cruet of holy oil. sign of the cross.
no one says grace. honey mustard grace.
how are we supposed to read the calories
in the dark. i like the texture
of your buttered zucchini so you
shove the bowl to me. i steal the 
pickles from everyone's plates &
the red onion halos assume their place
above me head-- if only they would
give us some illumination. 
it's best to eat in the dark
though, you know? feet touching
beneath the table-- ankle to ankle
brush thigh. i wonder then, if it's
all me-- all come to celebrate out
to dinner. one of us would have had
a flashlight. the menus made of stone
are hard to remove. i didn't order
cheesecake but i wanted it. i said
last year said this said last year
that i want to one day be better
enough to eat cheesecake on 
my birthday. in the morning 
the mattress is soft & topped
with strawberries; a handful.
the forks were cactus mouthed. 
i stumbled onto the surface of your
bacon cheese burger again-- the cheese
up to my ankles-- the burger
dripping sweat like hot july rain.
even the exit signs gave up on
being red. how will we get out then?
the rest eating, eating-- clink 
of knife & teeth to table. everything
in here is edible in theory. even me.
it's not cannibalism if it's dark.
besides, i'm a cold slice of cheesecake.
maybe a chicken taco. maybe smoking
on the curb with the scampi-ed shrimp.
the cars pass beneath the table.
i remember the lighter in my pocket
that i keep in case we need to burn sage.
the plates are just warm tar. 
there's no one else at the table. 
after hours-- the waiter; a folded napkin.
i put her in my lap & wait.

___ days before i move

i keep greeting people with numbers 
& yesterday with the family all
around i said 10 when i really meant 11.
last night after we all got home 
a whole forest grew not too far from
my apartment. of course i wandered into
it because who can resist a forest--
each trunk huddled together like
a waiting room. under a weighty evergreen
i drew two fingers across the dirt 
just to find that it was sapphire 
blue eye shadow. the palette i tossed
years ago when i stopped assembling my face.
the bark asks for its makeup done so
i rub the blue powder on my thumbs--
the mud comes in skin tones-- viscous 
& pale i smooth the foundation between
the veiny creases of the bark. i tell the 
trees too that i'm moving & when they 
ask where i forget. they ask to do 
my makeup so i'll be ready. we're in
the aisle at the supermarket & everyone is
eyeing us up-- why is there a boy here?
but the survalence cameras don't pick
up on me because i'm moving soon.
i say 11 days when i mean 8. 
i still get nervous when i walk there-- 
like i'm going to give myself away.
stuffing my pockets with concealer 
& blush, the store is empty. the parking
lot is empty. the moon leans down & 
says do me next, do me next.
whatever woods there was was fickle
& gave itself away to the football field
that's usually back there. the astroturf
impersonating green-- i tear it up in
handfuls. it bleeds black liquid eyeliner 
all over my hands. wash in the sink.
i cry because it's too fast & everyone
keeps insisting that i look presentable.
wiping my hands on the fronts of me pants
to try to rid my hands of blues & purples. 
there was a full moon this week &
i apologize to her for the blame.
she understands & tell me to stay up with her.
chapped skin from space-- she lets me 
smooth the concealer across each crater.
i tell her that i don't mind her 
topography but she says that this is 
only for this night. that she has someone
to impress. i have to move a few things
in my trunk but afterwards i held
my fingers laced together & asked if 
she wanted to step down. i told her 
that wherever i move that i'm going
to need the moon & i don't know if
there's a moon like her in the city.
she laughs & agrees, stepping more
dainty than anyone would surmise 
a giant rock could. knees into chest
i closed the trunk. not long now.
not long now. wash the cobalt shadows
out from the creases of eyelids.
oh restless moon. not long.  

firefly souls & impending august

i promised myself not
to write this poem as
i sat outside last night & realized
the dwindling of the fireflies. 
counting three-- their dull light
bulbs-- filaments tired blazing--
the fires of humid late july night. 
there was no one else outside 
so i caught one to talk to-- 
i asked them why it was 
that fireflies have
bioluminescence. fear? escape? art?
did you invent Morris code
with your bodies? they refused 
a response so i searched an answer
on my phone, thinking
about how surreal it is to 
live in a searchable world. 
what mysteries are the firelfies
keeping from us when they fade
out each year. i needed
to tell someone so i told
you about how the fireflies 
are talking-- how they inhale
to control to the flickering of
their bodies. they have no lungs
but they bring in air using 
vesicles. i continue meandering--
pick another one up & inquire
if he'd want to teach me how
to breathe like that-- how to 
turn the glow on inside 
my chest-- i swallowed christmas
lights & tea candles to no effect.
they use their shining to find 
each other. i think about how
come august this most be especially
important, seeing as there's only
a few of them left. rousing at night,
voices hoarse from brilliance.
three fireflies telling june stories 
around the base of the dying oak 
street. they envy the moths whose
deaths are more dramatic at the hands
of the street lamps. i linger &
request to listen to their tales
as well. they don't mind. they want
to know how it is i find the rest of
my kind without relying on the 
gleam of a body & i have no answer
for them. before i go
back inside i stare at the apartment
building & imagine each little room
a dazzle-- are these my people?
the hallways was dark & the door
to the stairwell closed heavy.
is this august then? is this us? 
out the window i watch the whole
field turn bright-- the souls 
of all the summer's fireflies 
gathering to keep the rest company.
i pull the blinds shut-- breathe 
deep one last time-- ignite 
myself with the blue lights 
from the top drawer of my desk.

i've been carrying
around the red notebook
you bought me for my birthday 
last week. i can't bring 
myself to write in it, 
but that's usual for me.

in book stores i'm always drawn
to the shelves of leather bound
journals & pocket notepads. 
it's something about beautiful chaos.
i lack direction, turning page
after page of wordless poetry.

i want to bring you over & 
point to the empty lines saying
this is a sonnet about the softness
of your hands, about how in the end
everything turns out square like
a house i accidentally 
build us on a sleep walk. 
it has too many windows.

the shelves in the book store
would swell, more mammoth than 
the redwoods & 
we would lose our shadows in them.

i'd say 
this is a terza rima about your 
voice in the hall where we stopped
on our first date-- the mirrors 
inviting ghosts-- this time i 
ask to dance with you like 
candelabra's full of cold rain. 

we spill onto a page. 
occasionally i open the notebook
to find us both standing inside--
back to back-- writing
to each other in white ink.
turn around
i whisper, but they don't hear me. 

this is all to say that
i'm keeping the book empty to hold
a space for us somewhere someday.
the little ribbon bookmark,
a red drop of blood or rain
following between us. 

maybe a telephone line. 
maybe a strand of hair. 
maybe a blank like to write on.

narcissus 

the Fleetwood pond with the ducks
& the bull frogs is also the sum
of both my eyes; the algae grows over.
i go green & muck. i traverse the 
rocks along the edge where i blink
& find narcissus-- elbow deep
in the pond-- trying to search out
a reflection again. he weeps so 
i blink & he slides between the rocks--
the seed to a white flower that will
grow vain as the rest of them. 
on other days i've found narcissus,
washing himself-- cupping the warm 
water & pouring it over his face.
i warm him not to drink from
stagnant pools-- especially not
the pond in Fleetwood-- man maid
as it is-- with the bass replenished 
each year for the fishermen; one
thrashes & i feel it in my iris.
i tell narcissus that i don't 
think of him like everyone else does--
that i know that no one stares at
themself that long out of unrequited love.
i stand in the bathroom mirrors--
each of them another pond growing
algae to fall into-- fingers dipped
in surface. if the world goes green
i can at least forget this body behind. 
we want to love ourselves, we think
if maybe we hold on long enough 
the water will warp & give way to
someone neither of us had seen before.
i kiss his forehead-- move back his
long brown hair & tell him that 
my eyes grow algae out of self-defense.
the ducks plant their feathers in 
me like eyelashes-- the bullfrogs 
swallow too much & become stones. 
i hold his shoulders when he leans--
touching his lips to the water. i tell him
there are other days-- i pick a white
flower & tuck it behind his ear-- 
a narcissus flower, of course. they start
to bloom from the drain in the sink--
i pick them each morning & toss the in
the waste basket. what they don't mention
when they laugh about narcissus is that
it ends in suicide-- his will to
live lost somewhere in his own reflection--
i lived like that too-- leaning forward
& praying the ponds have no bottom.
to sink us & disappear out skeletons.
today we hold each other in the soft grass.
he shakes his head
am i so vain? am i so vain?
i press his forehead to mine. the water
ripples with game fish. we kiss until
there's nothing but white flowers
& algae so thick we can't see through.

911

& the voice said to call 911 
if it was a medical or mental health
emergency. i didn't know where it
was speaking from so i felt 
along the floor of my room for
microphones-- nothing. i needed
my glasses. i don't wear glasses. 
where the light switch used to be
there hung a telephone & i pressed 
the numbers-- each button turning
into a black beetle & scurrying away 
as the tones sounded. on the other
end god filed his nails & the sound
of it came through like static. 
no one on the line-- i said 
isn't there always someone there
when you call 911? 
& the voice came from everywhere
but the phone-- a deep hungry kind of
laugh. i think that we will god into
being & i lazy recently & he quit.
took a break & with his fabric scissors
he meandered down east main street 
snipping all the wires to me room.
i reach & there's another phone--
only with one is calling me.
hello hello this is 911
& the phone turns into a boa--
crawls down my throat & leaves
with my voice box which is also 
a pomegranate. no sound comes
out & the calls pour in from across
town-- begging for me to send someone.
when i finally set the phone on the
floor in desperate-- the receiver shook
& out came you-- with your soft
hair & your dial tone eyes-- crackling
in the blankness of the room.
what room? you take me in--
crossing my arms across my chest
before you lay me down, turning
the snake back into a wire where
it came from. before you go i 
ask if you could hold me & hang up
the phone so the electric murmur
in the background can go quiet.
you do & you ask me what the state of
my emergency is & i say 
nothing nothing nothing
talk of the temptations of 
mouths. i will call you 
again when you leave to know that
you arrived home alright to the
little box on the telephone pole. 
there you'll tuck your knees into
your chest to fix. the light switch
eats the telephones, as light
often has the habit of telling
us we're alright. it's not a good listener.
i take the rest of the night to 
braid cords-- your electric hair. 
sparks fly-- each heavy with
a word long ago spoken to god
before he drooped & became a boa
crawling on his belly between
light posts. i trust you. i do.
i suppose i would have to. 
the pillow rings when i put my
hear to it-- 
hello, 911?