32 flavors of non-fat yogurt 

this is the story about gods
of small plastic containers,
stacking themselves in rows. 
the miniature domains. peel off
the lid on the top of my skull.
every universe stacked in the grocery 
aisle. jesus multiplying the loaves 
only this time they're yogurts. 
i also eat yogurt but i'm smart because
i distrust it. question it's 
goals, what it wants with us. 
it would be easier, yes, easier
if my bones were malleable & 
recyclable. in the light of a fridge or
maybe a moon-roof she peels
off the lid & asks what kind
of music they'll be playing inside.
a slice of key lime pie the size
of a thimble at best. a quiet sugar.
(if there is any sugar left). when we
run out we'll have to call each 
other aspartame in the dark. you're
a sweet girl-- you don't need much 
room. & there she can wear too
much makeup & consume without 
utensils. lay back on the spoon,
a sturdy recliner. no one has to know that
she keeps boston cream pies &
occasionally red velvet cakes 
as lovers. her husband, a fork. 
what good is a fork? 
the lovers dress her sometimes:
in ruffles, &, if it's hot outside
& the kids aren't biting each other,
a bathing suite. a one piece,
because no one wants to see that.
the god of small containers has
a sense of mercy & cruelty. 
we talk from time to time. i stand
to eat just like my mother just
like my father just like the light
from the fridge: dim & reminiscent of
a firefly asleep with his 
body still on. sleep in a small container.
the taste of lemon meringue. i crouch inside.
i close my eyes to listen to 
the shedding of pie crusts in 
the waste basket. spit out the last
mouthful. there are smaller containers.
i wore a button-up & left the girl
dangling neatly on a hanger in the closet.
she is rightfully ravenous, but i close
the closet door. 
i ask for more.

dark chocolate

I.
bite fur &  black wrapper. my uncle &
i ate dark chocolate. we picked we 
shelf-searched for bars with
higher percentages of cacao-- 87% 92%.
trees bursting from beneath supermarket
tile floors. i pretended to like the taste-- 
tucked each piece beneath my tongue: a folded
note drenched in ink. the cacao beans were falling 
on the roof of the house & will be mistaken for hail. 
shingle by shingle, tearing off like dried finger nails-- 
the scales of a fish that only swims in black water. 
sometimes i'd spit it out (secretly of course).
i'd say this was the best-- the very best
& downstairs the rain forest would ache.
a toucan nipping at our ankles. the laugh
of the brush. swallowing. milk, smooth
as oil, setting fires on the way down. 
II.
when i moved into my new apartment
there was a bag of dark chocolate on 
top of the fridge belonging to no one. 
i sample it from time to time-- i think
of toucans. the jaguar in the washing machine. 
i eat pieces sporadically & without warning. 
i have been trying to figure out on what occasions 
i eat it. it's not out of hunger or fear. i do not
particularly like the taste-- the anger 
in each morsel. the indignation. does god keep dark 
chocolate in his cabinet? a cup of
thumb tacks? if resent had a mouth. 
three nights ago i ate 10 pieces. all
in a row. the rain forest cramping up
in the cellar-- fingers on doors. 
door knobs on tongues. the wrappers. 
i'm sorry. i'm sorry.

the birth of venus & other apologies

my heart is most like the big
white shell that venus is standing
on in Botticelli's painting-- 
the other half that snapped & snapped
when out came a god-girl. i'm sorry
for clean dishes i've broken. i'm sorry
for not visiting. i'm sorry for coming
into this world fully grown like
venus, too much too cover up with 
orange hair. i'm sorry for rust dying
my hair & staining the sink. 
under knuckles. the shells on my desk,
none large enough to shrink back into.
am i a body too cumbersome to be undone?
i'm sorry you have to knit backwards
to fix where the stitch was dropped.
i'm sorry for breasts-- cover her
quickly. i don't know what the painting
is supposed to be about but i want
to cut her hair off & drop it in
the water-- watch the strands grow
fins & swim. i have yet to see you 
in the spring. i have yet to learn 
how to not split that shell on exit,
does she have clear skin? does her face
wash have little blue beads in it?
where is the blood? i'm sorry far that
too. for hora of spring, the goddesses
who keep the portions of time like slices
of plain cheese cake-- wax paper in between.
the blanket to cover me. i'm sorry 
for nakedness & for apologizing too
much & not enough. i'm standing there too,
standing in the big half-shell heart.
what i want to know is how she's not
crying. how venus could be born
as a grown woman & not react
at first with tears to being so
much all at once. i wish i was 
a better lover. i'm sorry for 
cellphone & for glass. for my wrists 
& for the other half of the shell
(wherever she may be). i love girls.
i love women. i'm sorry that 
a part of myself will always be 
in conversation with ways of breaking.
isn't that what birth is though?
an apology? a break? my mother
split open like a geode
& now there's nothing left
of her but hair that has gills
& swims in the rain puddles. 
is it raining now or is that just 
venus. i want to take her inside.
i want to lay her on my bed, hair
freshly cut. i want to tell her
that there will be no more men.
i want to apologize until we
both become portions of time--
put on each other's clothing--
an over-sized shirt. a pleated
skirt. keep the sea shell on
the desk. my heart my heart.
the goldfish in the sink.
my mother, knitting a naked quilt
to throw over us.

pluto's wife

yesterday i learned that pluto
has a wife, so i walked outside 
in the driveway to see if i could
catch a glimpse of her from earth. 
between the muddle of night sky & mars
being so loud & red i could barely
make her out; crouched on 
the small cold surface of 
the dwarf planet, knees tucked
into her chest. she is so young.
pressing hand prints into 
the frozen nitrogen surface. 
she toyed with her hair, a fish tail
braid. she glanced at neptune longingly,
who wouldn't? he's so so blue &
she is so so young to be all 
the way out there. it's commone
though, that a young girl would 
want to throw her heart 
like a skipping stone at the night sky. 
i have made similar errors.
i baked a tuna casserole like
the one we assembled for 
the reverend's wife 
when he died,
covered it in tin foiled & gripped
the dish with my green hot pads,
started trekking up the steep slope
where the earth blends into space.
i had expected pluto to be tiny,
but i had not expected how miniature. 
she took off my boots by the door
& we stood about an inch apart.
her breath was warm against me,
fogged my glasses.
she offered me an appetizer;
those fried raviolis that aunt
Pam used to make at Christmas,
she's a pluto goer too. i think
it's in our blood. the hereditary 
desire to escape at all costs.
without a word we fed each other, 
wiped crumbs off each other's faces, 
the marinara sauce in the corners 
of our mouths.
i told her to run away with me
& even though pluto didn't protest
she shook her head. she crouched
back down & pressed her lips to
the icy body, sealing herself there.
i fish tail braided the wife's hair
before i left. i sang her the song
we sing in church on the feast 
of the assumption of Mary. 
Ave Ave Ave Maria. i want to call
her Maria but she wouldn't
admit a name to me. i did the dishes 
that were left in the sink. 
i set the casserole 
on the top shelf in the fridge. 
i took my time strolling home.
i wanted to look at least once
at neptune: so so blue. we met eyes so
i quickened my pace. my planet
is green & wants me.
my planet is wild & i don't
take off my shoes, leave footprints
on my bed. i wake in soil & sun.

side door 

we don't use the front door to
of my parent's house. that's 
where we keep the coats & the jackets
& the red scratchy mitten 
that lost its other half. 
there's too many coats. it's
too tight. the wool brown shawl.
the blue blazer with the elbows
worn out. even the delivery boy
from Mama's Pizza knew that
we all come in through the side door.
the front door is green. the side
door squeals as it open, the lid
of a can of peaches. the syrup
across my thighs. don't cut
yourself on the rim, i lick
the lip of the can & my tongue
bleeds all over the kitchen counter.
if you knock no one would hear you,
ring the door bell. as my father
installed it i lay on the living
room floor & pretended the chime
was the toll of some far-off clock 
tower. the light on the porch.
we put a wreath on the front door
& didn't remember to take
it down till at least april.
it was evergreen & cranberry.
now it hangs on a hook with
the too-many-coats. the folds,
the layers, the tampons that 
never fit, on the carpet like 
the columns of a dead church. 
i'm convinced that the front door
wouldn't open now even if we wanted
it to. a place for holding.
a place for the blue knit hats
i used to wear. my father's vampire
cape. the tall vase made for holding
umbrellas. we don't own any umbrellas.
we ordered pizza. i learned how
to take out the storm windows 
& come into. come inside, wipe
your feet on the coats but careful
it's sharp in there. when we first 
moved in our family's love for the
house blushed in all the windows. 
the lamp in the upstairs hallway
trips the breaker. dark. the towel
wrack in the bathroom rips off
the wall. the sink upstairs overflows,
running down the stair case. 
when i visit i want to come
in the front door, or, at least
hide in there. step in between
all our old winter wear. tongue 
& teeth. hide & go seek. you won't
find me, crawling between scarves
to touch the heavy cold door. 
gold knob. back up against it,
i tell the house that i love her. that i love
our old house so much. the banister
snaps like a hip bone. i tell her
she doesn't have to open. no she
doesn't. the coats all come down from
their hooks like when everyone kneels
for adoration at mass. i don't
find the other red glove. open the
can of peaches, gently out the side door.
the taste of syrup. enough. enough.

hair gel

I.
a handful. the cabinet in the bathroom.
aqua blue. dad's hands. my father's
hands through my hair. the pool. the pool
upside down & dangling from the elm trees.
oh basketball & 4th grade. oh collar shirt 
boys. a black belt tied around my throat.
staring in a bathroom mirror, taking hair
gel in my fingers. we all stood up. 
the Apostle's Creed. your son. you son.
your blue retainer on the bed stand. 
i wanted the same hair gel as dad. 
got2be spiked up. got to be taut, he
taught me how to make a fist & i'd
punch his open hand. this is love.

II.
coming out of the sink, clogging 
the faucet. blue & viscous. my own
mouth making hair gel. washing face in 
the sink. the cell phone floating in the pool.
ambling between the rigid towers of
dad's hair, his hair line: covers 
being drawn up to un-blanket me. he sits
on the toilet with the lid down. he
is too small. the size of a hair brush.
i cut his hair & save it in a plastic bag.
black  &  grey. grey window, what's it
like outside? pouring hair gel, smacking
against the pavement. the elms learn
to hold still, swing sets go stiff. 
wash the gel off. wash the gel off.
swish salt water under tongue, does is help?
doesn't help. i work the gel between fingers.
i run it through your hair. 

house centipede 

faster, there are faster ways 
to enter. the windowsill, a tongue,
a ladder. the giants have five
legs. the giants have five
legs that they do not use to 
walk with. oh what could they 
be for? the floor the floor--
under the dining room door, thats
where you go. that's where you
go when you are hungry, where
the spiders pray to marble-eye gods,
all wired in web & song. tell
them to sing to you, ask for
a melody in elegy to each of
their legs. eat their legs,
but not too quickly.
swallow & regret nothing.
there will be giants. there will
always be giants, wielding building
to smash body.the fall of Rome gripped
by their legs. it is night now.
have you found a mirror? 
know to the core of your being
that you are ugly. you are
so so so ugly. your skin, 
a clear sack, muddied. spiders.
spiders are the alluring ones--
with their eyes glinting
as dead stars. ripe blackberries.
ballpoint push-pins. pupil. i do not
feel bad, i do not look
when i chew. i do not
meet their eyes. that's important.
that's an important rule. 
eyes, eyes. eyes. if you
stare into them you will
start to see obsidian everywhere--
you will want sugar.
in the quieter skies-- across
walls-- in the grass where
the real stars are tired &
ready to let go. we are not
yet ready to die. 
if the giants find you, 
you will die. you will die 
& we will not bury 
you. you will not come back,
not return the cycle,
born thousand-legged again.
we lose those. we lose those.
i think of their joints
like the branches of the willow
sobbing into the grass, alone.
i have seen it happen. the fall of Rome. 
the fire & the crushed limbs
& the running. 

this is, as all poems are, 
a confession of love. i stumbled
upon you, first in your hair.
the snow laying down. your 
wife, of course, made of snow.
her fingers planting themselves
in my poem. oh poet who loves
poet who loves poet. i love
a poet too. the tragedy 
of winter. 
you would have liked
my town & the field where 
my brother & i stumbled 
in green snowsuits to guess
the owners of paw prints. the dog
we didn't have. the wood chopping
itself on the porch. me
chopping myself on the porch.
you could
have easily been my father.
he also loves you too, as do
all men who know their
own bodies too well. who are
cold. i have
to admit that i've been telling
everyone that i hate you.
don't laugh, yes, yes
of course you must laugh,
this is the only response 
to fear of falling too deep
into the mouth of another. 
mending the well in our
chest. your wife there. don't
we all have wives who die too
early & sons who bury themselves?
wait for earth to thaw. back
to your hair. i find the white, again.
i'll buy you coffee & 
show you the best yams & sweet
onions at the market.
my mother's burlap bags.
sell the farm. sell the farm but
first fill your pockets 
with soil. tell me, will 
we end in fire or ice? 
tell me will you write
the earth above both
of our graves. is it frozen? 
i hope they don't bury me. 
i hope they fill their pockets
with the ash.
when night comes i'll show
you the creek. she would
have liked it there, yes
she would have. this is
where i admit that throughout
my life i have repeated
the phrase "& miles
to go before i sleep" as
a refrain for feeling myself
drifting off, not to sleep
but drifting off of the earth
the way the bitter-cold snow
scatters from a gust of wind.
this is where
i tell you that i know
your son, your son
burying himself. he's in
the backyard between our 
two pine trees. don't
cut them down. not yet. 
keep the trees dark & deep & lovely.
oh read me another poem. 
teach me winter. i love
a poet i love a poet 
i love a poet too.

**Robert Frost was known to have troubled family connections 
His first son died from Chloera complications &
His second died by suicide. His youngest daughter spent
the majority of her life in a mental hospital & the older died
from complications of child birth. His wife died 20 years before
him of breast cancer**

green

i tell the mailbox to kneel,
it's prayer time. a mouthful of 
grass & dirt. the peonies. 
my right thigh is a perforated 
surface where needles trip
in & out like trows. the big
rusted shovel leaned up against
the garage door. the burial
of chicken bones & bottle caps,
making ancient. who will
be the time capsule & who 
the gardener. i crouch down
to talk to my eight-year-old self 
with her rusted knees. she's digging
in my parents 1/2 acre backyard,
sandwiched by corn & soybean fields.
i explain that i've grown up to have
a backyard the size of a postage
stamp i would have how killed her.
she builds an apple orchard
out of push-pins. i steal her,
wrap her up like a sapling from
the nursery off 222 where my father
& i would pick out flowers for
the church garden, three springs
in a row. am i a perennial? 
do i grow up? we set to work.
i listen to her because she knows
better. there's a chorus
of shovels that fall from the
grey cloud, driveway-clang. 
a car alarm from inside the garage.
hush, we're digging. first,
the edges: the quilt undone one
square at a time-- all fray & 
foliage, earth bursting into 
onion grass, wild & tall, up to 
my neck. oh cicada do you
live in new york city or 
are you waiting another 17
years to prick the air
with your legs again? she takes
the tape measure as i explain
that i'm a boy now so i should
do it. she disagrees & measures
the corners of green. from
there we pull the earth like a 
roll of wrapping paper. 
first into a hill & then a turn
in a gravel road: the path 
where at night the foxes
come to eat honeydew, where 
the soybeans speak into headphones.
i walk, alone. october a brother
who's too far away. have i ever
told you how much i want to plant
a garden? i see us laying
in the small-square backyard.
i show you my eight-year-old
self but i introduce her as my sister.
you know i'm lying but you go
along with it. all up us, staring
up at a hazy grey sky that's supposed
to have more stars. she plants
them. i say
add a hydrangea bush for my mother.
you as for a rhododendron.  
a tree that blooms with syringes
takes root by the garage. 
the tree is a boy.

Wisteria 

alarm clock angel of death who
ate my pillows. this is what to
do with lamb's blood when it's only 
diet soda. mark your door,
the white whisteria whose petals
were never sturdy. hang down
from the doorways, the garage
where my father's blue jeep digs
a grave to crawl down into. 
do you trust barriers 
& boarders? i craved
your body next to mine last night.
i wrote a poem about
your under the covers. it's gone
now. i curled into myself like 
a snail shell-- fist
of calcium carbonate. bone. 
used myself as a chalice to hold
a plague in. we agree that
i'm a morning person. we agree
that the sun doesn't know
my name & is as startled by
me as i am of myself.
in elementary school
i tried to justify the existence
of god to other 4th graders by
explaining the angel of death,
took a red sharpie & marked
an X on the classroom door, called it blood.
i wish i could sleep more. 
i wish you could see the sleep 
left in me. the stones. the stones.
i wish that my heart didn't 
ring with locusts. 
what have i done? water into
blood. the frogs dropping
from the ceiling. the hail &
fire. wake up early enough.
i check my door 10 times for
the marking. i want to hold
onto your body longer. as if 
bone returns to skin. as if
the shells of snails unfurl
into petals. every waterfall 
becoming wisteria, we smell
good. we smell like thunderstorms,
fire, & sugar.
this will not pass, you know?
this is the morning on
this side of the world. 
i wait, cross-legged. 
unlock the deadbolt. you're
asleep. i invite the angel in,
we drink tea. we briefly 
turn into steam & back again.
we do not find words
for each other, only blood.