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?

cortisol

the immune system water park.
the dinosaurs were animatronic 
all along & i was feeding the ducks 
bread like you shouldn't. 
corrosion & cortisol both
sound like the names of flowers
when i repeat them, speaking
to the shower walls where my voice
can live as a dragon would in
steam & grotto. beneath the drain
is a basilisk & i feed him olives
through grates. he's patient. 
he reads magazines. 
he likes it when i sing even though
i leave a window open. i hate it.
it all sounds like the crinkling
of gift wrap: echoes alien & adrenaline.
the creature purrs almost 
like a cat. we're allergic. i close the door.
there's neighbors in the drywall.
they have a small baby whose
hand prints are muffled by 
the paint. what colors did we 
paint the living room? green
is the wall furthest from 
the couch, but what about orange?
there's orange in me now 
that i can't get out-- a sleep 
sucking color. my bones i swear
are sugar or glass or somewhere
in between. the flowers dotting
the lawn-- fierce & flamingo.
they don't come up in the rain.
they don't come up when the grass
turns into a bag of kettle chips.
my father is salting the soil.
we won't try sunflowers again. 
they don't come up in april
& august but both & neither.
a bulb of tongues. acidic & beautiful.
i don't pick them when they arrive 
as they always do. when i was little 
& naive we would get the vase ready.
the acid, leaving burns
on my face & hands. their sweet smell
singeing the ends of my hair. 
this is why i have short hair
or did i pull it all out? i can't remember.
it is best to leave vases around
the house. respect the flowers.
oh cortisol a kind of kiss
& the power line is down & 
throbbing in the street. the hiss
of the basilisk. treat him kindly.
bring flowers, preferably
white clovers. something innocent.
a plate of potato chips.

electronic organ

when the aunts sell the house 
i want their electronic organ.
a heart or a lung. preferably 
the one from the living room. i tape
the sheet music no one has ever
played to the walls. i make it talk. 
you & me, both quarter notes
dangling from the ceiling where
there used to be a light fixture.
on holidays we would sit
together on the piano bench &
ask her questions. how old were
you when Pearl Harbor happened?
sitting-on-the-bed years old.
the smell of gun powder in the sink.
she answered with the foot pedals:
the big one in the back is volume--
tilting deeper into the vocal chords
of a mechanical word. i want that
organ. i haven't thought about 
transportation, but i assume the 
ghosts will be inclined to move it,
one less thing for them to deal with.
i'll ring the door bells of their
picture frames. a spare kidney?
a liver? the skin is, as we know,
the largest organ. eight keys 
on the bottom row don't make
a sound because they're playing
somewhere else. maybe the attic,
maybe just the light above
the kitchen sink. the faucet drips.
where will i put it?
i guess next to my bed. i wouldn't
want the organ getting lonely, waking
up in the middle of the night
in a far off city & sobbing for 
it's mother. i'll get up 
with her & put my warm
skin on her body. i'll hum
what's left of church in me.
i'll tell her about where
i was when Pearl Harbor happened.
an olive in the back 
of the fridge. bombs in the
sink. the faucet leaking.
pushing the volume away--
a voice getting farther. distant now.
just one lung. 

tupperware 

at the first sign of rain 
i went outside into our tiny square
of a backyard, took the fishing rod.
(the one we used twice a year) (if
we were lucky). (from the wall of the garage)
(the line still tangled all around).
i put the spare hooks
through my lip (you wouldn't approve)
i know, that's why i did it. 
(also) it's an convenient place to hold them.
with me, i took some assorted Tupperware.
of course, none of the lids matched,
some dull red & some blue. a circle 
a circle a square, a round square. 
as deep as a bath tube (as swallow).
we went fighting in the lazy Susanne.
you are good are organizational systems.
i am good at chaos & standing outside unafraid 
to be struck by lighting. 
(that's the only way you'd ever be able
to catch it). (a ripe bolt). (as blue
as they come). i wanted to find one
for you, keep it in the freezer
behind the ice cube trays. (for when you maybe
come visit me). (stay still).  
will you eat it with a fork (plastic?). 
did you know that sometimes 
electricity in our blood
can make us forget words? (what words?).
(daughter & father & yard & rod &
rod & lid). hand me the lid.
(which one?). the red-blue-green.
i'm not fishing. these hooks are
for aesthetics. there must be
one with a lid that matches it's body.
(one that's deep enough). does your
father know you're here? (probably not).
i would call him but then he'd ask
about how the thunder smells 
& i would have to lie & say 
that it smells like cream soda.
snapped the top on. this one (right here)
is for you. i waited three hours
for it in the rain. my fingers
went prune. the yard grew weary 
of me (the yard hundreds of miles 
away from yours). i'm saving this
for you so that you'll remember
that time we sat in the garage. 
you took the fish hooks out (gentle).
the blood trickled. the lightning 
so sweet. licorice & mango:
a seed smacking the soil.
(our soil). i'm saving it. (for you).

i want to be a better teaspoon,
this is how to make a scone. this is
where the blueberries run frozen & wild.
i swallow them & pretend they're hemlock.
hem my lips like the purple skirt--
the locket i made from bottle caps.
occasionally i mark my height on 
the expanse of my forearm. i'm little.
a pairing knife. the pairing knife you 
use to make thighs out of pears.
i don't eat pears but peaches will
do just fine-- only the pits. i want 
to bear a tree & call her daughter
until she grows hair. i'll cut 
it off to sell for wigs. oh what
a pair, what a pair of earrings. 
i only wear one earring at a time
so that i'll always be off kilter--
who wants to be balanced. i'd sell
the moon for this-- a wad of washing
machine dollars. oh love oh love 
will you go in the second drawer--
that's where i left the picture frames,
they're good for plating cheese 
& crackers. a party. have i told
you that you part me? a clove of
garlic-- one chamber of a heart.
i think of the muscles of a skinned
rabbit, all exposed. a teaspoon
in your mouth. when i eat peanut butter
i measure it out in table spoons.
in tables-- spread the table,
wheat toast, take off my crusts.
i'll do better. i'll get better 
& call it a body. i eat standing up. 
i'm good at making
scabs happen. there was this
boy in high school, no, middle school.
there was this girl in middle school,
no high school. oh yes, well
a brick of butter, your chest
a pan. oh yes.

Stolen 'Wizard of Oz' ruby slippers found 13 years later

the first morning when you
asked what color. first, hanging
the shoes from the ceiling fan
& watching them spin, each sequin 
illuminating a new corner of 
the apartment, the angry flecks
of light. hellish fruit flies--
dance & telling no one. No one home.
The curtains closed. the wild tornadoes
don't come to Cherry Street. the town
has been quiet since we were little,
check the forecast though, you never 
know when the it'll all drop
without warning. the wizard with
his microphone in the bathroom,
sitting on the medicine cabinet.
is my prescription ready yet? 
do you have a heart still?
tin & full of oil, leaking on
the floor. is there a mop to
clean this up? is there someone
who's feet these will fit. 
oh Cinderella whose waiting for
a pumpkin to drop from 
the ceiling fan. where do good
pumpkins come from? do they 
wear heels? pacing, the hoof clack 
the foot step. 
The hard wood floor. hide them. 
hide all your fires & let them
burn quietly. they will not 
find us-- we will stand in the 
dark-- clapping our heels three
times. We're not in Kanasas anymore--
or the living room or a body.
too tight. the woman outside with
a green face. the woman outside 
with a purse full of monkeys &
the hot air balloon that never lands.
a car alarm. take the shoes in 
your hands & bang them together.
hammers. you can fix this.
a moment. just one moment with yourself.
a waltz playing on the small ghastly radio.
the memory of your husband who 
tossed the video tape player in the trash
when it started to eat the film.
just for you. this is just for us. 
ask god There's no place like home?