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?

this morning you told me that
your pet cockroach died & i felt 
nothing about it. i'd never met him,
you see. to me he's just a metaphor
for Kafka or growing up ugly. 
i had at least six-legs until the 8th 
grade when the hormones did alchemy on me. 
i assumed he had a narrow life,
four windows & all. do you ever
bump into the glass? i don't. this poem
refuses to be nihilistic. this poem
is honest. i don't ask
you but i wondered how you 
got rid of the body-- dropped
in the top of the trash can like
a gum wrapper. i've realized that
death, at least for me, is occasional.
not occasional like, once in awhile 
but, occasional like death only
really happens if it has occasion with you--
if you wear black & all. i'm remembering 
the farewell ceremonies of fish,
the Our Fathers flushed down the toilet.
then, of course, the bodies of
mice & rats writhing & then going limp 
in the glue traps that once lined the wall 
behind our fridge; dad opening of a trash bag,
the plastic black mouth. i resisted the urge to name them.  
during college a boy hung himself
in his dorm room. i had encoutnered him
a few times, stood behind him to fill
up my water bottle, passed his door,
locked eyes for a second or two. i only
remember his first name & it haunts 
this poem like a trash bag. they notified
the school via email. i deleted after 
a few second read, still in bed under blankets.
this is all to say, that the occasion 
was not wearing black-- maybe grey.
now i live in the same building that 
he did in a room the same size as his.
do you bump into the glass?
do you break off your antennae & fold
them into coat hangers? 
i wonder what is different about me & him,
what his father did with the dead mice.
i don't know what this has to do 
with your cockroach but i hope you
made occasion with him. light sage for
the ants smashed against the dining
room table. keep the black dress,
the one with the lacey front (even 
when you're a boy). remember yourself
ugly & six-legged. 
you tell me there's only one
left in the terrarium & i feel him
circling the parameter, stepping
over the carcass. stepping over 
the trash bags. my dad said to me
once that the whole funeral business
is a scam-- that they could throw 
you in those cement boxes wrapped with plastic
& no one would know the difference. 
if i were there i would float the bug's 
body on an oak leaf down the river
sticks, where is the Ganges? 
the one that flows under
everyone's bed at night. did he become
a cockroach, quiet & still?
the glass the glass-- all four sides of it.
if occasion makes death then is
death without occasion unfinished?
i want to be unfinished, tearing plastic,
keep the glass intact-- careful. 
this poem is dishonest.
a deleted email. a grave dug out
of metaphor. glass. 

face paint

i find myself sitting in your metal folding
chair. we're outside at the church carnival 
with your palettes sprawled out on the picnic table
every year you would come to do
face painting, bringing your totes of acrylics,
the artist's briefcase. i read the color
names on each tube: midnight & mustard seed &
flamingo & fuchsia. teal me, navy blue me.
the touch of brush to skin.
is this one of those dreams where you're my uncle
but don't look anything like him? 
face canvas-- i sewed your skin gossamer.
you dip the brush, cool strokes against my face. 
i forget what we're making me. i forget how old i'm supposed
to be. i count my fingers & assume that as an age. 
all ten of them, yes?
outside the grass was damp between my toes. swishing
the brush in mason-jar-water between colors. 
i too painted faces a few times & all the girls 
always wanted butterflies-- purples & blues
& pinks. are you making me a butterfly?
will it make off with my face? i'll leave
the carnival as a dream person who is myself
but looks nothing like him. i set up on
a street corner in the city i've never moved to.
perching criss-cross legs with the sidewalk square 
as a palette, wash my brush in the storm grates. 
will you let my make your face into a fox?
i ask as pedestrians amble by, confused but
compliant, laying themselves down in front
of me. i tell them who i'm supposed to be as 
i draw the brush steady across their skin. 
there is no better surface to paint on than 
the human body. the softness, 
the slight breathing motion-- i paint confetti swirls 
& dragon fire. one school carnival 
i painted a boy's face full of scales & his
mother came back to me asking
what did you do to him what did you do to him?
i'll make no excuses for the paints. they 
do what they will. occasionally kids would ask my uncle to 
paint watches. he loved the details--
the color of the buckle-- the clock face
glossy in the sun-- the time. paint the time
on your wrist-- not you face of course
what time do you want to 
spend your whole day? i think i'd like
7pm at night. that's when i eat dinner
alone at my desk. it's still light outside in july. 
the red hips of the fireflies paint everything
sunset without permission. where do they
make their palettes? i'm hoping you can help
me though, so i found your chair, your metal 
folding chair. just say 
yes i am your uncle.
it will make me feel better for the time being.
i want you to paint & not tell me what you're
making. i will tell you that i like
the colors cobalt & sea foam green. 
do what you will. take your time. 
it's all 7pm anyway.

the timer 

I. 
close the oven door. clang the metal pan. 
white kitchen timer on the counter.
you set it to 3 minutes for the brownies.
the sink drips. the mechanism jostles itself
with each sec clink. the persistence of time
is at least digital. the shortbread living room--
you & i folding into the sofa dough. we're making
we're making: what are we making? you page through
the holiday cook books & leave posted-notes
on the pages of desserts you think we should try 
this year. rosemary & poppy-seed, pecan tassies,
measuring sugar as deep as the high chair.
i don't remember the oven of the house in fleetwood
or the house on main street. click-click-click 
the timer is urgent-- ready to shriek. you twist
it forward, muffling the scream in your palms.
II.
where did you learn time? did you peel it
off the counter or take lessons from the blender
blades-- the ones that cut off my brother's finger.
in my room i'm too many years old & i started to
hear our old timer again. faint, at first. the gentle
first clinks, maybe set for twenty-five minutes.
you can't stop her from using your bed as a cookie sheet.
i find all my miscellaneous vessels full of batter:
the pencil jar, the cardboard box by the door,
the iced tea pitcher. i pour them out the window
& they bake-burn instantly on the hot asphalt outside:
smell of angry chocolate. i'm scared it'll go
off before i find it. frantic, i yank out drawers--
the ticking getting louder. telltale nature. 
you're too busy with the non-stick spray, coating
my whole body. the air is made of oil. the timer
goes off. i open my mouth & the brownies are done.

this is a brief poem to the trees
that grow in parking lots

this is the scenery-- the asphlat
& the two girls dropping plastic coffee
cups in the over-flowing trashcan.
the table behind the shops is where
i sat to read. i told myself aloud
that this, in the ground scheme of
things, was relatively beautiful. 
three different people asked me if
this was the back door to Starbucks,
i nodded. i noticed that the tree that
grow in the parking lot stand two by
two by two, like noah's ark or something.
there's eight in this lot alone, each 
pair halo-ed by cement fences-- reddish 
mulch on top. i wonder how deep 
the soil goes-- if their knees bump
against the hardened stone surrounding them,
like when parents sit at pre-schooler chairs.
i hope they have imaginations. maybe
at night when the only car is the white
security van with the blinking orange-yellow
light, they tell stories about where they're 
going to plant themselves when they grow up.
i'm thinking of my friends & me on merry-go-round 
at the park, laying on our backs & i said
i was going to australia to be a farmer 
& another said they were going to new york 
city to be an actress & another said they 
were going to the czech republic & that they
could tell us how to say chocolate milk in czech.
maybe they have smaller aspirations to live
in the waterworks park up the street where 
they could take big breaths free of back door
grease & car engine. a boy heading into 
Starbucks dropped his cigarette on the sidewalk
& stamped it with his foot before
rushing inside. its guts smoldered & scattered
by a breeze. i come back at night with a shovel,
one tree at a time; digging them up by the roots
& trying to fit them in the back seat of
my car. i have no where to put them, of course.
this wasn't well thought out, as are most
acts of heroism. i ask if they can duck their heads,
all eight of them, if maybe one can curl up
in the trunk. they rub my back & thank me
for trying, they tell me that they do in fact
have each other. pairing off, they take turns
weeping, holding each other. there's dirt strewn 
all across my back seat. i spend the night.
there's now one driving the security struck
with the yellow-orange light-- it's just a phantom
car, making it's rounds. this is a poem 
for the trees that grow in parking lots. i will
come back for you one day. i'll come with
stronger arms & a taller car ceiling.
 write to me if i move away, or send me a handful 
of leave, i'll know.  

bars of soap 

no one respects the windows anymore--
the precipitation has been breaking in 
with all of its forms-- last night, waking
me up with the bluster of snow in july
i went to shut the window & found it
already closed. down/upstairs there was
the clunk of a knife slicing soap.
our bodies are made of soap, you know?
the snow lathers my like two hands 
in the sink. that's you with the lavender--
with the alarm clock slung out the window
like a ladder. the power's out, again,
you say in a voice the comes from the ceiling
& not you mouth. there's no room for soap
when you change houses like pairs of socks.
knotting the door knobs & mis-matching 
front porches. i drive & park on a door bell
& it smells like cucumber melon. for my 
fifth grade birthday (i think i turned 11?)
we went to soap shop in town. around a table
in the back room, passing around oils
to smell. papaya & mint & good karma. girls
make soaps. rubbed in between hands. it's funny
because i sliced your body out to make
myself cleaner-- made the bed/sink 
turned the faucet over our heads while
the rain disrespected the glass window--
soaking us to our bones-- our bones 
bubble & sting. i want to smell like tea
trees when you're done with me-- like 
chamomile & rose. i've spent too many
years playing make believe that this
act was going to clean me-- out out 
damn spot-- as if there was enough 
to scrub all the blood out of me. is this
snow or suds? in the backroom i watched 
another girl slicing soap, thick hunks
like a slab of meat or root vegetables 
for stew-- my mother was there filling
the crock pot with soap & water. i got in
& invited you, but you politely declined.
it was a bit awkward i don't blame you.
i pressed my face to the skin of your
neck to inhale but you just smelled like
a body-- no rain or vanilla or pine tree.
they taught us how to wash our hands once
in home ec class & demonstrated, saying
make sure to get the wrists. you do that 
with me. you get the wrists. i make
the motion of shutting a window even
thought there are non in this room.
who makes a room without a window? i'll
build one of soap so that there's somewhere
to wash myself when your bones run out
in the sink.

I.
two of the kitchen lights burned out & there was only
one dangling by the chord above the counter. he opened the
two slices of bread like a bible. margarine on each page.
i watched dad & he said, "this is it & then we're going to bed."
holding the metal knife to spread a layer of cinnamon 
& then sugar-- margarine holds it all together. he let
me eat under the covers & dropped the beer bottle caps
to the carpet. like sand between the bed sheets. 
"don't tell mom" & i peeled the crust off the mattress
onto the bedroom floor. the inner bark of trees:
the sugar cane growing into grandfather's walking stick.
the embalming begins; learned from mummies, cinnamon 
under eyelids; rubbed into skin. 
II.
under fingernails-- sweet grit; a dusting on the windowsill
where the song birds get spice spackled on their wings.
i'm rummaging under my bed for a kitchen counter-- a necklace
of ants meandering beneath front door. "and then we're going
to bed" & the posts are made of cinnamon sticks & the sugar 
is still in the blue bag by the coffee machine. i eat a sandwich 
at my desk by a string of christmas lights pinned to my wall. 
sixteen shadows & bulbs made of margarine. looking for
the metal knife to turn the bible pages back to genesis 
where the first cinnamon bark was harvest from the laurel tree.
where snake turned to sugar in my hands. where the 
last light when out above the kitchen counter. where sappho 
knew cinnamon as cassia & slipped it into a poem or two;
guarded by winged serpents beside myrrh trees & laudanum bloom.

dear sloan,

do you remember the eighth grade?
neither do i, but i do remember you.
you, shipwrecked on an unknown island
with only an address to your name.
i see you standing, feet in the sand
as the waves chewed the coast.
your mother & father building a kitchen
table from palm trees & bickering. 
mr. ashman, the algebra teacher
made us write you letters each new unit
to explain the math concepts so you
you could stay caught up with us 
when/if you ever returned. of course,
i know you were just a teaching method,
putting numbers into words. but i want
to know if after all that time we made
you real, what is it that makes a person?
did your skin thicken with each envelope,
tearing them open to read your name spoken
into existence. your pronouns shifted like 
the sand you stood on. 
he/he/she/he/she, in the writing prompts
mr. ashman made sure to alternate
so as to leave you unfixed & queer
just like i would grow up to be.
the girl-boys trade letters in solidarity. 
i love that about you. tell me, 
what about exponents & integers-- what
about ratios & scientific notation do 
you still remember?
will you write to me then & teach me
what i once taught you. i'm  sorry i
know i wasn't the best at math but 
maybe i was good company-- tell me
about yourself, then, do you eat mangoes
with a sprinkle of salt like my father?
are you the only middle schooler on
the island & have you aged in these last
ten years since i wrote you? 
do you stack rocks in
the silhouette of girls & boys to fall
in love with? i want to find you
& bring you back home. what is a hometown,
then for us? for the variable bodies?
i'll set off on a ship in the creek that
runs behind the schools-- fall asleep
& wake up on the shore where you no
longer exist. there your 
drawing in the sand remain, linear
equations & system equations-- 
do you graph a line strong
enough to send your body 
away from here? oh sloan, we understood
each other, didn't we. put my
gender into numbers, sloan, put
my mouth into fractions. i would
maybe have loved you, sloan, if 
we had had more words for each other.
will you write me? will you write me?
i live at [insert address here 
yet to be determined]
i keep my gender safe in the lock box 
in the attic, you can keep yours
there too. maybe there's an equation
left for me, one i don't remember.
will you explain it to me then--
carve it in the stones
if you must.

jesus christ of landfills 

the sensation started in my joints--
the static television fuzz-- the lurch
of the room teasing my body. all the 
pencil is the jar are too big & 
the window is a swimming pool turned on
it's side. i kneel on the floor of
the shower & almost leave down the drain.
i ask for my mother & i'm reminded of 
the story of the finding in the temple.
even the sons of gods run away sometimes.
what you don't know is that between 
the temple & his reunion, jesus
slipped out of his time & stood at
the threshold of landfill-- the one
up the street from your house. creative
as he was, he made sculptures from 
rusted springs & coat hangers; tore
the stuffing from sofas to fashion new clouds.
they're dull & refuse to consider the rain.
all the while his father scolded him
that he was too young for these games.
i crawled into a cracked windshield 
& he told me if i cut myself that 
there was good chance i would 
disappear entirely. i'm flu-sick &
my bones remind me of deflated tires--
the ones he plucked from the garbage
& pretended were halos, toppling over
unsuspecting angels like coat wracks.
i'm standing there with a the smashed back
of our old rocking chair, the one
my mom sat in to put me to sleep--
wrapping me in cabbage leaves & duct tape.
i'm asking him 
what year is this-- what year is this?
& he laughs & meanders away, stepping over 
mounds of wrappers & smashed stale hamburgers.
he's slide on the welder's mask & makes the
sun purple for his own purposes.
mother, pick me up, all that's 
left is a handful of grey sand.

animal crackers

the lion with three legs & the rhinoceros
have convinced me otherwise. why did you
have to go all supermarket, on us? 
i'm standing in the aisle with the big jar--
lid open & seal punctured. i couldn't handle
all the growling & shrieking anymore so i 
followed the commotion back to the animal crackers.
on the picnic bench at snack time we tore
off their legs one by one-- the alpha beasts.
i asked the boys what noise the lion makes
& they opened their mouths to let out
the sound of an elephant. is this vegan?
how did they breathe for this long
under plastic? the thrashing of cookie-bodies,
the camel's hooves kicking the bison 
in the head again. i heard he's going
extinct. what kinds of bodies crumble
when broken in two. sweet vanilla & biscuit.
counted out in the plastic cup-- the final
chamber of the heart before the mouth.
i pour them all out on the floor, encourage
them to flee. i tell them that the teacher
will be back soon so it, as always, a good
time to make a get-away. i'm scared of 
the hippopotamus because we watched that special
on animal planet & they stampede people to death--
flattened out on the metal tray. i watch
my skin baking-- wafer-ing of my elbows 
& my joints. i join the heard-- a monkey
or a giraffe? bending down their necks-- they're
scared (as they should be). i never meant this
to go so far. i'm still in 2nd grade at 
the snack table with the safari guilt-- with 
a handful of limbs. this gorilla was born
with no head but can still run. does this
make me a carnivore (again)? 
the lion bites me & i forgive him instantly--
after all this packaging what else is
left to do? he sprints but doesn't make
it very far. this is an apology then, maybe,
to the sheep & the seal who were patient with me.
what sound does a girl make? i ask them 
& they stare at me puzzled for a few moments
before replying "help!"