quieter rainbows & the dull knife

in my drawer i have one knife with
a chipped tooth & a white blade.
i've used it for the last two years 
& sometimes at night it sleepwalks--
standing up on the counter, cutting
invisible cherry tomatoes in half 
in half in half. i have to pick it
up & tell it to go back to sleep. 

we were standing in the supermarket 
parking lot when i thought of the knife again,
saying how it might be useful for 
slicing the rainbows into bite-sized pieces.
they bent their backs across the sky, 
celestial acrobat with her hair down. 
i reach out to run my fingers through it.
silky, like dandelion tufts.

there were two rainbows, one quieter 
than the other. i imagine the louder 
one tastes more like cotton candy 
& less like honey dew.

we sat in the car a few minutes.
i kept the knife a secret because
i didn't want to you worrying about it
going senile & following me where ever i go.

rainbows kicking legs, dipping feet in
cloud. i feel like the muted one--
the one who trembles at the sight of 
knives-- the one who cups her
palms to drink the asphalt dry.

i invite her to come home with us
but she's too shy & she sees that
i'm carrying a knife. out of custom 
she plucked it from my hands to cut
off a morsel of herself.

i ask, is that why you look like a ghost?

she leaves the knife on the dash board.
you didn't notice. we were talking about
how to coax a bed post into taking root.

alone at night i leave my front door
a jar. i unwrap the sliver of rainbow
& take a bite-- hoping she'll feel 
my teeth & walk inside, leave her louder
sibling tucked behind the ear of the sun.
taste of dried cranberry & water. 
she picks up the knife-- cuts off another piece.

Jacob's well

last night i dreamed of whirl pools.
Jacob's Well aching, lodged in cypress creek's neck.
felt it going a few feet deeper. restless
as all Texas Hill County. chewing  our collection
imaginations-- craving, yearning for us.
i read about the thousands of passage ways,
the quiet birth of underwater caves, i could feel
each fear i had stretching the aquifer--
hard swallow. on the walk home i tested the
earth as i traversed-- wondering if 
Well's like that are contagious-- if by 
letting the thought into your mind that maybe
more might come. the whirlpools like blisters
wild on the back of a god laying
faced down as we step on her body. she goes
deeper. my mother becomes a throat to
fall into. at Jacob's Well the locals stand 
around in red swim trunks & bikinis &
there i am leaning on my car. i drove 26 hours
without stopping to get there but i can't,
for the life of me go in, the locals turn 
into fossils of trilobites & fern-- scurry
back to their places along the lips of
the opening. i think of the bottom of
my bathtub & how i never trusted it-- how
i ran my hand along the plastic surface again
& again. you must demand the ground beneath
you or it'll go cavernous on you. 
i swear i heard it laughing-- either that
or it was just the collective voices 
of all the bodies submerged-- skin to
stone-- the dull teeth of the water. 
finally i asked i the mouth would have me--
tongue gushing water. if she would 
want to make me a fossil as well. i remembered
the stories of dad digging in creeks with his
own father. i hoped that maybe he would 
uncover me-- set me in the wooden chest
next to the rose quartz. i waited for nightfall
when the world was done congregating at
the entrance & i could be alone
with the unfathomable drop. i love the
kind of darkness that water makes-- the kind
of mythology that it writes-- i conjured 
water beasts to eat myself. i stepped
in one foot at a time. water cool &
turning to milk. bones floating to surface,
i go under. 

you tell me that while you were in Montreal you 
all stopped in the biggest cemetery in Canada--
Notre Dame des Neiges: Our Lady of the Snow. 

tell me, does it always snow there, just within
the gates? the ghost of a women with hair made
of stone feet & frost bite come too late. 

i am a person of thresholds & one of those 
is your hands. let's make moths of ourselves 
& give in to acres-- to the archways built
for the dead to feel a sense of purpose again.

what business does a city have growing around
a mountain? like Mount Royal i laid
myself here in your hair-- collecting 
your shop lights & inquiring where they
each came from. i want to know
what the cobble stones are like when
they come apart because we were all up too late.

i want to know 
if we can stop here.

if you'll read the names off the tombstones
to me, the names in French that i can't pronounce.
they wake up-- brush the snow off our shoulders.

our lady is opening another grave with her thumb--

did you find La Pietà Mausoleum?
Laid out before a fountain filled with glass,
collecting reflections to hang in the parlor.
Michelangelo's twin statue: mary with 
the limp body of god across her thighs.

did you ever rest your head on your mother's lap
like this? i did & i asked her to pet my hair--
i melted-- became translucent; dissolved
into the the creases of the sofa.

we don't touch like that anymore.

you get used to the glass in the bath water

tell me, love, will you notice the snow fall-- 
the shovels are to dig us out-- 

tombstones tall as redwoods.

do you ever wake up with moss
on your elbows-- shake the tombstones off
like toadstools. 

our lady, carrying dead seeds in
her pockets-- breathing ice on them
to keep them from telling secrets. 

the first time it snows when you
love someone is irrevocable.

i wanted to be there with you. 

to lock the gate, 
even if only for an afternoon.

after

someone says, again, that the smell 
after rain has a name.
we step careful beneath 
the tree branches. post downpour,
the soil opens its mouth to breathe
mist on the glass; one great big
tongue ululating under flip flops.
the word is petricor & i think that
it sounds too metallic-- like it
should describe the distance between
wind chimes or a sound that tin foil 
makes when you roll it our on
the cookie sheet-- i can't feel that
softness. i say that the smell reminds
me of the mellow under bellies of toads--
their pebbly skin. i'm eight again
in the porch lights as i cup one
in my hands-- his tiny pronged
foot wriggling-- pushing to leap out. 
i open my hands just a crack so that
the toad pushes his face out-- nostrils
blinking-- eyes full of metal. 
the word is too severe, no give to it,
petricor sounds like petrified--
like stunned & still. the moments
after are nothing like that:
the twilight of water where the sea monsters 
poke their heads out from gutters--
faces speckled with condensation--
the loch ness monster peering from
a pile of a damp leaves, great whites
thrashing cracks in the asphalt.
on the drive home i kept the windows
down so that the smell washed over me.
the word repeated itself in me--
like a perpetual fall down a well
growing deeper & deeper. i waited for 
the relief from impact but we all 
kept falling-- petricor petricor petricor
like a summing of a ghost who 
had exchanged it's name for legend.
petricor: petri meaning stone--
cor coming from greek myth, the fluid
flowing through the veins of the gods.
it all flowers through me & outside my
house in the open mouth-- i step
past a row of teeth. the toads scatter.
the lips are my own. they close. 
after tonight i will forget the
words we said & i will write a
story about how the rain made 
the edges of the road fall away. 
is the rain made of metal?

I.
un-thaw in the metal sink. spigot neck leaking
as mom turned the knob. cool water over
the black-plastic tray of shrimp from weis.
we aisle-lingered while mom compared prices in
the white light of the store. 
dad traced his finger up the back of the pawn & said
this is where they remove the intestines from
a loose sweater-cuff string-- the body pulls 
apart. bowed-head pink, mouths sauce grinning.  
i knew nothing of their legs. they were picked off 
as well, scurrying free in the dumpsters-- 
so desperate for salt water that they knocked over 
shakers on the kitchen table. no one noticed.
we ate standing up. 

II.
when i tell boys i'm vegetarian their fingers
turn to cocktail shrimp-- thumb on either
side of my mouth, prying open. he'll find
my jaws full of shrimp legs instead of teeth. 
taken back, pulling them out & tossing them
in the open trash can. what a waste of scurrying.
at least the shrimp are low calorie. he said
if you're vegetarian there's so much we can't
eat together
when i finally bled, tooth-brushing in
the bathroom, i tasted ketchup & horseradish,
spit into the sink. will you hold back
my hair? i used to think that cocktail shrimp 
were raw until i peered in & saw a bin of 
them gone stone grey-- cold granite flesh.
he traced his finger up my back.

painted stones

i've lied so still lately that 
god keeps mistaking me for a smooth stone.
she comes down to paint my
back with the prickly dollar-store 
brushes. i flinch, but i let her.
you get used to the texture of paint.
i want to ask her to paint me blue
or green. we all know she's a tall
woman with brown eyes but i wasn't
expecting her in the broad daylight.
encounters with god are imagined to 
be more dramatic, stage lighting &
the full moon blaring in distance, 
but, there she came around the back of the house
with a sweating pitcher of unsweetened
iced tea-- asking if i wanted mine
with lemon. yes, of course, god
is even welcoming to a stone. you tell me 
that people are hiding the painted
rocks all over the valley. some of
the stones have sayings like 
"smile today" or 
"you're worth something."
you tell me that you planted them 
all along the trail on 
the hike up Glen Onoko falls but by
the time you hiked back
down people had already picked them up.
i go there myself, in god's pocket--
warm against her thigh. she keeps
running her finger across my forehead.
she realized by now that i was a human 
but she let me pretend now
that we'd gotten so far. she took 
me out & nestled me between a patch
of moss & the knotty roots of 
an adolescent oak tree. 
i hoped that someone would pick 
me up quickly, like the painted
stones to planted up the mountain.
i thought you would be confused 
if i asked if you'd checked if
any of those turned out to be people.
i waited until dusk when the trail 
was speckled only with the foot
steps of animals. i have yet
to determine if a stone should pray,
so i stood up-- paint chipping off.
god was still there, of course.
she's patient for revelations.
calm-like, she came up the path 
with her brush ready, asking if
i wanted to be painted again.
we go home. this time i walk &
we pick up a pink stone with a butterfly
sticker & a red stone that resembled 
a great blood vessel. she turned them
over in the dim light of the kitchen
table-- takes out her reading glasses.
we remain quiet. in the morning
she was gone & i stood in the bath tub
while i peeled off the rest of
the paint.  

skipping grace

you tell me about our cousin's wedding,
about the dance floor melting into bright
red mixed drinks & the church service
that didn't count for sunday mass (you were
rightfully disappointed). i didn't go,
i made a spectacle of not-going even though,
secretly, i really enjoy the notion of weddings.
i am a lover of a rituals especially when
they distance themselves from their meanings.
white is prone to staining like my pelvis &
i think i accidentally wrote my vows three
years ago on the walls of the park bathroom. 
what makes something a promise, then? i hope nothing. 
you complained that no one said grace & 
i asked if it comforted you to know that
your brother never says grace either. i said
that to be funny because i think i do say grace
because sometimes before i eat alone at the wooden
desk in my bedroom, sometimes i feel thankful for
small things like cherry tomatoes & zucchini
sliced into cubes. what counts as a prayer?
sometimes i take the 1/2 measuring cup
& fit the whole chapel inside. it's a sunday 
morning & i see you in a pew & i'm here 
at the altar of a paper plate where god
will also lay down & become a sliced banana. 
you asked me if you think any
of us will ever get married & i inform 
you that i've been planning the wedding
for years. it's in a tiny jewelry box 
that i'm currently keeping in the trunk
of my car (there's no place for it indoors).
inside there's no church but there is
wedding cake samples all lined up in a row--
wading waist-deep into frosting. i tell
you about my idea for sugar baptisms-- that
none of us Catholics love ourselves enough--
it's part of the deal, a healthy sense 
of shame. you ask if any of us are
going to fall in love like that--
& i don't tell you that i think i 
might have already. i don't tell you 
because you're eighteen-- when you're
older-- when you're older. inside me wedding
there's no rings but there are ivy plants
& the ivy plants grow in loops around
your fingers if you stay still long enough.
i might invite you-- i might. i haven't
made up my mind yet. no, this isn't
that cliche where i tell you that 
the wedding in the jewelry box is 
just for myself & i. i don't really know
what it's for yet. there's not all that
much space though. i don't even know
if i could fit, let alone the family.
i do want to promise you, for certain,
that we will be skipping grace. 
there's too much grace here anyway.

with a black eye 

on all fours, growing out from beneath 
our grandmother's porch, emerge 
the black-eyed susans in their pleated
skirts & pigtails. they bruise easily.
the play in the tall grass & stain 
their skin green as november. what's green
in november? make up something &
move on. i heard them laughing.
they woke me up again-- yellow is a laughing
color & so is orange unless it's
too dark, then it's a blood color. 
i followed their voices-- i had been hoping 
to find a fresh patch of the flower, 
but instead i found all the grass had become
dried & brown & dead. 
grey clouds screw sprinklers into
the spigot out on the other side of the house
& turn the knob until a steady stream comes
down. i'm looking for the susans with 
the black eyes. who did this to you?
whoever it is we can't just let them 
run around pounding their fists 
into the sockets of young girls
(even if they are just ghost flowers).
i baked chocolate chip cookies-- chewy
& with semi-sweet chips. i stacked them 
still warm on a plate & perched in
the shade hoping the girls would come
over to take one but they just multiply 
with each other-- tossing hopscotch stones--
planting their wounds in the soil to
make more of themselves. i asked my 
mom where babies come from & she said she'd
tell me when i was old enough to have my own.
it's only logical to assume that 
i came from beneath the porch-- a bruise
turned yellow in delight-- in rapture--
bruise turning black in it's on pure-joy.
why are none of them boys but me?
you know why. you can grab anyone's neck
& bouquet snap them-- up to my neck
in the vase. you should cut off the 
bottom of the stem, they'll last longer.
they come back every year no matter
how you treat them. i admire that persistence--
my grandmother never had a porch or
a house. i just made this now for her.
she's wearing a pleated skirt, young &
running in the tall grass. i wash her
knees off with the hose-- the green doesn't
come out. i wade into the lawn--
asking them to take me back-- 
dress me smaller 
& let the insects staircase me--
they run away-- they steal my bruises 
for their own collections.to plant in
night's damp earth when i
fall asleep & can't keep looking. 
all angels are yellow.

receipts

dear writer,
is it you then who is replacing all
my grocery receipts with poetry? 
i glanced down at the paper from 
a trip to buy almond milk & there
was a poem i had written in the 8th
grade about brownies. i sat in the front
seat of my car & pressed it open against 
my lap like a dried carnation.
a few weeks ago i stole the same flower
from the center piece at a reception &
i've watched every day as it bleeds
color back into the room-- a dull pink now.

dear writer,
where do you reside? in the mechanism 
of registers? in the earth under 
the supermarket aisles. is
there a pencil where you are?
i see you walking upside
down beneath the check out lanes--
you cover you ears to escape 
the monotony of ringing up groceries

dear writer,
i don't remember this one-- it's
about rib cages. i rolled it up & 
put the poem in the top
drawer of my desk at home-- that's
where i've been keeping them. 
i have the irrational fear that all
my food will turn into your poetry.

dear writer,
i bit an apple today & the flesh
underneath was all type-face
Georgia font. it tasted like a
back porch & a glass of unsweetened 
iced tea-- ice cubes clinking against
my teeth 

dear writer,
are you stealing the transactions--
keeping track of my honey crisp apples
& my unisex razors. do you eat enough?
is there someone there to brush
your hair (with it still being
so long).

dear writer,
the poems get older-- farther away
from me as i read them. i go to the 
grocery store nearly every day 
as a result of habit or possession. 
i eat a handful of grapes in
the produce aisle to tempt you--
i put my palm on the scanner
at the self check out in an  attempt
to touch you.

dear writer,
i liked the poem about the four seasons.
it's funny because i'd never write about
the four seasons now. you had a good take
on it. i hope you keep writing.

dear writer,
i'm hungry & i poured the milk
out into  the grass last night because
all i could taste was the bars of 
a bunk bed-- the springs aching--
the top bunk tired from standing,
knees locked, for so many nights 
overhead. i tried to swallow but 
the acidic burn of night light
was too much for me  

dear writer,
will you feed me again? i keep
hoping there will come a message--
a telegraph back to me. even as i 
write you i feel as though you 
are unbecoming-- loose beads
in a plastic tray. i don't want
to string you-- i just want to know
what you're doing here

dear writer,
no one else sees your poetry. there's
so many receipts now that i went to
dispose of some & my ghosts read aloud
the shopping lists-- the quinces &
apricots-- the baby carrots & cream cheese--
all food run dry.
i see you couched & barefoot, crunching
on the carrots, dipping them in 
the tub of hummus. oh writer
i am hungry

oh writer,
i washed the papers in the kitchen 
sink with the purple sponge. your words
were reluctant as always but the 
groceries came back. i sat on the end
of the bed & consumed a whole bag of
apples. do we taste like apples?

dear writer,
will you come back then, it's been too
long without your poetry. why should
we choose between the word & our tongues.
i lingered by the check out machine, 
receipt in hand-- reading aloud 
light ice cream
spring mix salad 
hoping i could summon you 
& we would reunite

dear writer,
build me a top bunk & sleep 
above me tonight

knitting needles 

metal clink, the same voice 
as claws on tile floor 
i watched you move 
the knitting needles like teeth--
fangs flashing in the thread bound book
of your mouth-- the notebook pages
where you jotted shopping lists &
kept track of stitches. 
i became obsessed with stealing
your needles for myself-- waiting
for your blue car to leave the driveway
in the morning. the canvas knitting
bag sat on the fourth chair at 
the breakfast bar-- the fourth 
sibling. i'd carefully rummage inside
to touched the different needles-- 
the shiny lavender ones & the thick
bamboo pair for the gaping stitches 
in the green & blue poncho. all this time
you were the quiet sorcerer-- keeping
an assortment of wands to yourself. 
i imagined you up late after putting
my brothers & i to bed, feet up on the
coffee table-- a knitting needle in each
hand to conduct the room back to order.
charming the sink into washing itself
& feeling bad about letting itself 
get go so awry, admonishing the 
blue & yellow plates when they let
soapy water slosh on the red kitchen floor.
i tried the same magic alone on summer days--
going out to the backyard where 
the sunflowers passed away years earlier. 
tapping the earth with the knitting needle
the soil gave way to pumpkins & a bush
of cherry tomatoes. i filled my pockets 
with them before they disappeared. eating
on the porch i told the garden hose to
spray a light mist in the driveway, enough
to refract rainbow in the water droplets.
i want to know if you still practice magic 
or if the knitting needles have long run dry--
back then they seemed unstoppable, 
twitching with the energy of our 
tangled green house. do the socks knot
themselves still or is that you up late
by the washing machine? dad mows the lawn now
in long crooked stripes & i tapped a 
knitting needle on the edge to try to 
trim it for him. nothing happened. same with
the kitchen table-- envelopes & magazines 
unwilling to budget even for the demands of 
enchantment. maybe it's me then, i could
be just too old. i sat there at the break fast
counter trying every single needle, even the
ones attached to each other that you used 
for knitting winter hats. 
your car pulls in the driveway. i'm 8 
& rushing over the canvas bag to put them back.
all those years did you know 
that i took them for spell crafts 
in the hazy july shadow 
of the pine trees out back?