pythagoras & me

i imagined you a life 
in geometry, living on
a white background with 
black outlined triangles.

there you would spend your
day pacing back & forth

breaking the physical down
into equations, squaring all
different parts of yourself:

your arms & elbows,
hanging little '2's from
your ear lobes & waiting
for the multiplications to
take effect.

really you lived around 530 BC
moving from Samos to Crotone,
(which is on the heel
of italy's boot).

did you have a body made
of white stone like that bust
they have left of you in 
the Capitoline Museums of Rome?

i see you ambling down
the Mediterranean shoreline
rubble joints & pupil-less statue eyes.

i ask you to make my skin 
into stone as part of 
your ascetic life: withdrawing 
from physical sensations to
obtain spiritual goals,
i let you kiss me once before
we begin.

at night do you wonder back
to the land i set for us 
of blankness & triangles
in search or the tactile?

the acuteness of angles
aching in your body as you
turned in the dark beneath
of moon too round for us both.

i read that you came up with 
the theory of metempsychosis
or "the transmigration of souls"

each soul set free briefly
from heaviness:

upon death, souls entering 
new bodies

i see this when i looked
out the window last night
at the sidewalk 

in the glow of lamp posts 
at least a dozen souls 
with L.L. bean backpacks &
camping kits 

on migration 

was it your soul that came
into me?

was that why i noticed you
far off in the distance?

why i made a blank world
for us to measure the 
length of each other's sides.

your father the seal maker 
in his shop, pressing metal
into permanence.

what do you think of it here?

i'll walk us to the shore again someday 

& i promise you can tell 
me about what the ocean 
was like in Crotone

i'll leave the light on
in my bedroom in case you go wandering.

10 minute mysteries

in middle school we had this substitute teacher
who ended class by reading from a yellowish 
brittle-paged book called Ten Minute Mysteries.
the man had hair coming out of his ears & tufts
of grey on both sides of his glossy bald head.
he kept a notepad in his breast pocket. despite
writing his name on the board at the start of
each class i can't remember what it was. 
i keep re-conjuring the image of his back turned 
to us, chalk in hand, as if i can reenact his
name into existence. i was thinking about
this while looking out the window when it started
storming yesterday. the trees throwing down their
leaves in frustration. i wondered if myself there
was something they couldn't remember too.
i never talked much about him to my friends 
in middle school & i think that might be because
i didn't really know anyone in middle school.
i was still trying on bodies. eyes tearing up
as i tried to circle them in olive colored eyeliner
like Jessie & Laura did. touching the smooth plumpness
of my freckled face in the girl's bathroom mirror.
the smell of strange sterile pink soap.
the whole point of the 10 minute mysteries was to
get you to solve the scenario piece by piece as
a class. there were murders & missing diamonds &
sometimes mundane occurrences like broken lamps.
i always wanted to solve it all by myself. i'd 
scribble frantically on the back of a piece
of notebook paper trying to take in all the details.
i never did answer one but the man would take on
my desk & nod & say something like "good shot" 
or "nice try." on days like this i want someone
to write me into that book. maybe as the detective.
i could be the criminal too, it could be interesting.
would the younger me notice myself in the story?
the teacher reading aloud. me standing up from
the grey desk & walking forward into the front cover 
of the book with a great big golden watch on it.
could i be solved in ten minutes? before the buzzer
rings for eighth period. before my hair un-straightens 
in the humid mouth of may. before the gun smoke clears
& the finger prints are wiped from the diamond.
before i leaned over a bathroom sink, painting
the circumference of each eye. are you a girl? 

on a humid night in early June
it comforts me to think of you 
just below the himalayan snow line
on another walk with yourself. 

what century was it when you last
felt lonely? up so high that the sun
releases pieces of herself like pollen.
cold melting on your hot grey fur. 

like all monsters there could
only be one of you. your ancestors
shaving themselves with the pink razor
until they became human.

blended in. worshiping thinning
air. only you feel her growing pains 
& the way her knees split open with 
ice & stone. covering your foot prints,

keeping you for herself. will
you teach me how to live singularity?
like the center of a black hole,
beyond helms & expeditions & oxygen.

for a moment journeying like you
do, without knowledge of the men
shifting for your skeletons. 
their thick coats & base camps.

326 B.C. when Alexander the great 
demanded the body of a yeti as a piece 
of conquest. the locals knew better 
than to try & take from the mountain. 

i'd like to belong to someone like that.
more than a child or a lover. 

a phantom limb. a threshold guardian,
hanging heart beats like flags
at one of the shrine sites on 
her craning neck. lips pursed. 

i love humans too deeply then, don't i?
too much to take on being a second species.

will it ever be so hot this summer that
temperature comes back around? 
cold, snow pouring in the open window. 

THE GIANT

this is another time i've
mistaken that NC Wyeth painting
for a memory.
a great giant made of clouds 
passing by a group of
girls on the beach. 
you tell me 
"it's about growing up."
it used to hang in the guest
room of grandmom's apartment
above the wicker end table
& next to the black metal-work bison 
poised on top of the book case.
there i imagined the girl
in the yellow dress
(the one a little farther 
away from the group) 
as you. your hair isn't black 
but maybe it was when you
were as young as her.
her feet towards us, i can
see the stones in them. 
the callouses on your heels
that sink you when you tried
to walk on water. 
i sink too, the bottom
falling out of the creek,
plummeting, bubbles trailing
from my mouth like bread crumbs.
the witch's house is a pile
of rice, fold me over. 
i'm thinking
of coming in when you were
taking a bath, the smell of
lavender & thinking of you 
as a brush stroke waiting to
be undone, saw you wiped
off on the painter's button-up
shirt. running miles & miles 
back to the guest room 
to check you that you were still there.
touching the gold frame & 
feeling the surface ripple.
a lake. bodies bending like
koi fish beneath. 
there's one girl standing up
in the painting. i always
imagined that she was walking
away. that maybe she was ready
to leave. her hair thick & brown.
i want to cut it off with a pair
of silver craft scissors.
i guess i never thought much
about the giant because i always
assumed he wasn't really there.
i think maybe he's both of
us. that maybe someone caught
us on one of those walks up
the gravel road by the soy bean fields.
or maybe up the perkiomen trail
one morning while the sun was
blinking wrens.
i know sometimes i feel like that. 
gigantic & imagery.
you watching me on your knees
in your yellow dress from
the back of the closet that
we don't speak of.
grandmom, hands on her hips,
her hair a nesting storm cloud.
i keep on & pretend no one sees me.
the birds flush.
no earth shakes. the ocean 
folding me in. a pile of white rice.

spring in Canóvanas Puerto Rico 
is impulsive. sugar cane fields
growing tall enough to thrash-- did you
come forth from the soil like the 
coffee bushes or el platanal?
or did the moon take a human man
for a lover again? you growing
through winter beneath a veil 
of clouds & tired ocean. he went
back to his family the next morning
to tend the goats & the sheep, hands
still cold from the cratered-surface
of her skin. his wife would breathe 
on his hands & wonder what could have made
them so hard like limestones. 
you come forth from el río herrera
run red, dripping with afterbirth,
sinews & veins. the spring has always
been hungry, plunging roots deeper 
into our skin. where does your hunger
come from? your unavoidable need for
blood. like you i have been ashamed 
if it. of craving. of thirst. 
as you walked by night, draining each  
maroon-scabbing creek & stream, moving on
towards the wooden fences of fields.
i believe you chubacabra. i believe 
that you didn't mean to leave carcasses.
first the goats, three pronged punctures
on their necks. on to the cows, who, with
rolling eyes, fell like tree torsos.
maybe after feeding you ran & laid
down on a stone near the brook, just listening
to the thrush of your own heart.
do any of us truly have control over
our bodies? i sit measuring raspberries
by the cup, each approximately 1 calorie 
bleeding on the counter top, our mouths
color murder, do the stains wash out
when you wipe your hands in the supple 
grass? do you scratch at your forearms
with twigs & brush? begging your body to be
less ravenous. over 150 farm animals
around the town area & onward towards
las piedras & juncos. did you stop at
the ocean & wonder if the salt could purify you.
if maybe there was enough to replenish 
the blood you drank. washing your face.
the bathroom mirror an open sore. come find me.
together we can take inventory of  
everything we've eaten. void me. i want 
to feel less guilty. wash berries in
the smooth  metal bowl.  

cicadas 

I.
dad says each year the cicadas disappoint him.
their gossip rain stick clamoring outside our windows. 
i imagine thousands in the sky like he wants. 
dense & shifting. a bowl of sun flower seeds.
spit the shells out in the dirt. dad divides his soul 
into parts when he makes batteries. cicada-angry 
in the chests of motor cycles & sometimes cars.
how much further can we sunder ourselves before 
god thumb-presses us back into the soil?
he blueberry-picks the insects from their clouds.
back underground. wait 13 years. 

II.
i find their body husks clingy to the trunk
of the maple tree in the Aunt's front lawn.
dad removes a few, inspecting their tiny blank eyes
& legs poised like mom's knitting needles. he sets
them in little boxes for our rock collection beside
the ammonite fossils & calcite pieces. when he's
at work the next day i go up there alone & pick
up the exoskeleton left behind. i hear it's ghost
throb in my skin & i want to burrow myself. i run
my finger across the slit where his soul escaped
& i step inside. his body is stiff & militia-like.
i open my mouth & a thousand voices fall from 
the ceiling like sun flower seeds. 

islands

we called them islands:
those little deposits of 
pebble-stones & silk that
collected in the middle of
the creek 

grass growing tall & wild 
with the heat of may

check your hair for
ticks in the light of
the down stairs bathroom

ceiling fan whispering
to the mirrors that you 
& me were explorers

people keep asking me
where i'm going & what
i'm doing with my life

& i want to tell them
that i'm collecting islands

the smallest ones i
can find

folding them up like
brown paper napkins or
amusement park maps

some are reluctant

i have to tell them stories
about how gentle & 
how careful i'll be with them

extending an arm & helping
them out of the creek water

their hair made of
short scraggly roots

dripping as they test
out their legs

i take islands to lay underneath
the oak tree at the play ground:
the one i always write about

i go back to check on
it whenever i visit my
parent's house because i'm
scared that one of these
times it will be gone

leaving a tiny yellow sticky note 
that says "moved on"
where it's massive thighs
once dug into dirt

the island climbs the shadows
of trees

she falls in love with
me without effort & 
i tell her about all
the times i walked on her
& how gentle i was

i show the island where
the girls used to sit
to watch boys play soccer
on the playground

where i used to hold caterpillars--
letting them crawl up
my shoulder until they 
reached my neck

my love for the island
is probably selfish 

i want her bodies 
for myself-- 
to barefoot-discover them
again & again

we walk down to the end of
the trail where we once
built a bridge from 
fallen tree trunks &
the island takes me in the water

she tell me to lay down
on my back & tall grass
begins to grow from
my chest

stones in my joints turning
gritty as i let it happen

she tells me 

this time i will explore you

& i let loose all my joints

no longer floating but touching 
the bottom of the creek 

her feet are surprisingly soft
& new like the necks of white 
mulberry flowers

she crouches & writs her 
name in the sand

i grow-- first trees & then 
waves & then salt water
& then bird tracks 
on my clavicle 

we take turns like this 

becoming & un-becoming

tomorrow i will be the girl
with the brown hair down
to her waist

& you can lay face down
holding your breath beneath
the water

1.
black asphalt grit in between toes. 
the drive way cups its palms. thunder clapping
the lids of pots & pans escaped
from the cupboard. billy goes inside
because he's scared of being struck by lightning.
screen door mouthing the words to a song
by simon & garkfunkle playing on a record
in the yellow sun room. t-shirt stuck to skin.
wet feet on kitchen floor & towels from
the closet at the end of the hall. 

2.
i graduated college this morning & they 
were calling for rain. the sky held out-- 
coloring in spaces between ribs with graphite. 
clouds fast & morphing. i'm wondering if it's 
the ceremony that changes us or if we were 
altering along the way. the rain comes after. 
heavy & childlike. i walk out on the back step. 
grown man-woman, asking it to come down harder. 
drench me. dripping on the tile bathroom floor.

if you bring forth what is within you
-Gospel of Thomas 

let's start with the
soybean fields & the onion
grass tucked behind your tongue

i'm pulling us out
by the neck 

i'm going to try 
to be honest with you

but it's hard with all 
this is pollen in the air

i've been having to handcuff
the clock to my wrist to keep
it from turning into a morning dove

did you hear that?

that's the sound of 
the wood pecker making 
a home behind our knees

let's walk around campus
one more time

i want to finally read
all the little memorial plaques
where dead people were stamped
into stone & metal 

their ghosts watching us
from benches & from 
the branches of sapling trees

some find each other 
& learn ball room style dancing

i remember how you
always wanted a boy to dance
with you like that
& i kiss the back of
your hand & promise to learn

promise to brush all my skin
with oil paint &
step into a portrait when 
it is time

for tonight we'll help them 
step down

old deans grinning with
their hands behind their backs

college president's with mouths
pursed shut like the cracks 
in the sidewalk down main street 

where the street lamps 
mistake out crowd for 
phantoms

i point to my wrists to
show the blue in my blood
& they with like bread ties

i've avoided telling you
that i'm graduating tomorrow
because i'm not sure yet what
that supposed to mean 

i asked the statues on campus
& each of them threw their
head back wildly & laughed 

i tell you that i studies english 

& you ask where  our plans to
become a psychologist went

& i say 
the best laid plans of men
often turn to mice

last night at baccalaureate
the organ grinned & 
kissed us in the only
way it knew how

i wish when i opened my 
mouth that it could sound something
like the big pipes over
our heads in the chapel 

the preacher quoted 
thomas & said 
if you bring forth what is
within you it will save you
& 
if you do not bring forth 
what is 
within you it will destroy you

& i saw me & you 
sitting by the old foundation
they tore down two years ago 

tossing in pennies 
& holding hands

i'm telling you that i know
bringing forth isn't 
like pulling weeds

like when dad & you would
kneel in the church garden 
& tear out those prickly
green plants

roots dangling & full of
mulch & dirt

i imagine bringing forth is
more like drawing the 
string of fake pearls 
from the back of our throat

one bead at a time

where did all of our
left earrings go?

did the oak trees eat our 
claddagh ring?

or did you make off with
it when you knew i 
was taking you somewhere else?

did you build 
a fifth floor to the library?

where you can sit with
your easel 

painting a picture of
yourself in our 
favorite pink flower dress

bringing forth yourself 
on the canvas

the act of disembodying 

i'll hang the painting inside 
the closet of our first
dorm room where only
you & i will know where
to find it

bringing forth can 
mean small deaths

can mean eating soup spoons 

& leaving the door unlocked 

i do not become
a man to save us 

even though i want to

i pulled it out of me

roots dangling

soil under nails

what is destruction then?

the fountain's ghost
is hungry

i made you into 
a penny-- heads down

i want to tell you about
the candles i light on my
dresser

they're made of bees wax 
& burn sweet beside a small
dish of rose hips & calendula 

i used to be catholic
& sometimes i accidentally still am

you would find mass intriguing

they would notice us both

with our monstrous bodies
trying to fit in the wooden pew

did i ever tell you that 
my grandmother couldn't go  back
to saint catherine's 
until she got her marriage nullified?

that she made do with the lutherans
&  their red doors

what kind of religion do you make?

i've seen you crouched 
on your knees sending dried leaves
down the creek beneath 
the bridge with all the
graffiti

are you sending them to gods
down stream?

do you believe that the water
flows into their mouths?

gaping open like
baptismal foundations 

maybe the river flows back 
to us instead 

did you you know 
that the ancient egyptians
floated down the river to get
their hearts weighted?

what if instead we
floated back to ourselves 

like waves chewing tedious
mouthfuls of sand

i came to you wondering 
what kinds of gods there
are for creatures like us

what ceremonies we can build 
between us

do you wash the red out of
your eyes?

i was confirmed & the bishop 
made a cross on my forehead 
with the consecrated oils

let me show you how i bless
honeysuckle nectar 

& milk-white rubber tree blood 

there are gods for us
i'm telling you

there must be