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!"

stone & the bloom of foxgloves 

there are over 20 different types of 
foxgloves & all of them ring when they 
bloom from between the crack in the sidewalk.
i tell them not to follow me-- i tell
them that i'm trying to catch a bus back
to my own skull-- the one they carved
into the side of a mountain. why do 
we keep doing this? making people out
of stone-- don't we know that's how 
ghosts get trapped on earth. there's
theodore roosevelt on the top of 
mount rushmoore with his loaded gun--
he's shooting straight at nothing. 
the scientific name for foxgloves
is digitalis which literally just means "finger"
because you can stick your fingers in
them when they're fully form. i open
my mouth for them to put their fingers 
inside, the ghosts of a coming rain storm.
i taste stone. i pick the foxgloves &
test one out as a nightcap, but it envelopes 
all of me. inside i wonder if this will
turn poison. some of the species are deadly:
call the witch gloves & the dead men's bells,
they ring. i crawl inside my own ear for
shelter. i whisper to him not to listen--
to focus on being a stone. if we break
concentration it's all over-- we'll
go back to being all flesh & skeleton.
i put the foxgloves one on each finger them
until they form latex. the gloves remind
me of the dentist stooped to rub his
fingers against my teeth. i tell him
to stop looking for the roots-- i tell
him the flowers are growing wherever they
want but not from inside me. i'm careful
of that. the foxgloves ring your heart too
loudly, i don't want to die i just want
to sit here in the cool stone quiet of 
my own skull. the headphones are playing 
white noise. the rain falls from a shower head:
hot, steam rising. i use the plant's 
open mouths to collect warm water to drink.
we're a water bottle left out on the front
seat of the car. they don't use them for medicine 
much anymore-- abandoned for better alternatives
& the flowers are vengeful. i pluck them
off when i see them because they're skilled
at whispering. they want to be filled with 
a body & then eaten. i can't tell if they have
ever had good intentions but i trust nature
too much. i let them try me on if they ask nicely.
one slips over my tongue. my heart, 
carved into the side of a cliff. magenta &
white speckled mouth & scarlet & lavender--
open my mouth-- tongue turned into a bell. 
i ring myself-- ear echoing. you won't
find me this way. follow the foxgloves.

what kind of wilderness?
thick trunks of gas station signs 
& the seven eleven that does money orders now.
i'm most fond of angels in 
the bible without names. i feel like
only they listen to people like us,
i pray to them with empty notebook pages--
the blue lines make a harp. what kind
of sound do your vacancies make?
i was re-reading about Sarah & Abraham--
trying to coax something out of them.
they came to sit on my bed, holding the baby
that was also just an over-ripe peach 
but also a boy named Isaac which means "God Laughed."
& he laughed & he laughed & he laughed.
i had to discover hagar & ishmael on my own,
out in the gleam of a sunoco sign. hagar:
the second-first wife of Abraham, sold
to him when Sarah couldn't have a baby
because when god called us jars of clay
he only meant women. her son was named
ishmael which means "God hears." which is
how i've always felt-- i've felt like 
my body is a one-way radio-- god the static cloud.
can we call this laughter? & of course she 
was cast out when Isaac came because all
we want to do is laugh-- laugh the weigh
out of the sun. i tried to do that 
today but it turned back into a viper
& snuck in the open car window, coiled
up on the dashboard. i let him bite me 
because he asked nicely. & out in the wilderness
when they ran out of water, the angel 
(the one without a name) touched hagar's
eyes so that she could see a well. 
she tells me she's been trying to track 
that angel down again ever since. i like to think 
that the angel helped her without god's permission.
that afterwards he ran away & erased his name from
every instance it was written-- smashing
the syllables like beetles as they tried
to make their way back to god. god who was still
laughing. she tells me she would 
let me see the wells if she could & she
puts her thumbs to my eyelids like the angel did,
saying, like this, he touched me like this. 
ishmael tried to buy a pack of marlboros but
hagar tells him to save the money. we share 
a blue-slushie instead. she tells me there's
a well in me & i'm not sure if i believe her.
she might just have said it to be nice. i don't
feel like a well. i still feel like a jar.
i ask her what it's like to meet people like me 
who try to carve some meaning out of her life--
out of tired books. she laughs & so does god. 
the angel without a name turns off all
the street lights so that the only glow 
is from the gas station. this is the wilderness
then, yes? Abraham still casting us out. 
i say god sure does makes a lot of promises 
to make nations out of men. 
she hurls the peach at the wall. 
we listen to the harp.
ishmael says he hears he hears

your birthday

got up this morning with her hair in
knots. so you sat her on the bedroom floor
& found the big brush with the bristles &
tugged until her hair bloomed like a handful
of clovers. take her to the coffee shop
even though she won't get anything,
point out the window at clouds to keep 
her attention, you know her. you know
she'll try & get away again. if she's good
at the super market buy her the neon candles--
the ones that have purple & blue & green flames.
buy her more than one box. ask her how
old she is-- seventeen, fourteen, ten, nine--
don't tell her to pick one-- just nod &
write the numbers on the sheet cake. 
there was a few years were we'd blend boxed
cake mixes-- funfetti & devil's food in 
the brownie tray. her skin freckles with 
confetti, convince her she's not sick--
just full of too much sugar. she follows
you into the shower but you have to keep
an eye on her & you show her where to 
wash to scrub out the bruises-- 
the peppermint scented soap-- she lathers 
herself into whipped cream. as you dry her
she asks what happened to your face & you
lie & tell her that when you reach your 
20th birthday that sometimes you get
fed up with being a girl. she touches
the stubble on your neck-- still damp
from the shower. you tell her to pull
up a sleeping bag on the floor by your
bed like your parents used to do when you
had a nightmare. she clutches an old
stuffed elephant to her chest & she
counts backwards from one-hundred 
to fall asleep. even though it's just
in her head you can hear it & it seems
to get louder & louder-- the windows pounding
with each number. she keeps losing track
around the number eighty. when the numbers 
stop you light the neon candles &
set them into her forehead. you apologize,
of course, it's not easy to be a birthday.
you lock the door so she won't leave. 
you can't let her leave. she won't
do well out there. at the end of the bed 
you read the book of saints because 
it's supposed to help you sleep.
the bed becomes frosting, a sheet cake
with the ends eaten off by your father--
the food dye turning the whole room blue.
you wake your birthday up when you shout,
she asks you what's wrong. the room
goes back to normal & she plucks 
the candles out of her skin. she hands them
to you & says 
another day, another day.

god's chestnut tree is behind 
the italian place; the one your father
parks at to collect chestnuts, spines & all.

he's filling his black paint bucket. 

i went down the stone path to
the chestnut tree on campus & it's burs 
are dull & nonthreatening. 

does the infancy of planets 
always go unnoticed?

i'm telling you i felt each barb 
as they matured--challenged the callouses 

skin: thick as mom's leather pocket book

dollar bills wadded up beneath 
the surface

your freckles are made of pennies

earth: a chestnut in early july 

each fruit will someday be 
the heart of another person if you
give it enough time

god, our father, standing
on the car roof to pick them 

he wears gardening gloves

there are coats made of needles
at the goodwill 

you try one on & i tell you
that you look aching

lately i've been tree-shadow 
wandering-- cutting off the dark 
branches & burning them
at the bottom of the closet

the shadow of the chestnut tree
is heaven-- or maybe just 
the Subaru he drives home

it's selfish but i know
i want someone else to peel me open

leave the husk in a trash bag for
one of the those clothing donations bins

i crawl in the slot & undo bag
after bag hoping for something sharp
to wear

drinking ginger ale, i'd snap off
the tabs to make necklaces & 
cut my tongue on the bent metal

blood tastes like raw chestnuts

ziplock bag me for the walk home

did the earth peel open like this?
or did god dig in with her fingers,

quills under nails,

to pry everything out

collaborative is what i call a body

is what i call a tree

i'm not interested in the chestnuts in june
they're not ready yet

if you position the telescope the right way
you'll see earth without water

you'll see the chestnut tree without
the spines

i keep gardening gloves in dresser

two pairs

jupiter beetles 

it was hot enough yesterday to melt
the jupiter beetles back into metal
where they came from. 

i bend down to ask them how many centuries 
it's taken them to train precious gems 
the same glisten as their skeletons

they with the mouth of swarm-- angry 
drone soul leaving the ground 

the beetles test the limit of the atmosphere

the beetles push themselves into my
knuckles like rings

there's aluminum foil
in the top drawer of my dresser--
i wrap myself & kneel out in
the sun in the hopes of becoming
baked-potato soft

if i'm not careful they'll start 
to swarm around my head like a halo or a crown-- 
linking together in a line at my forehead
a circlet 

in the bathroom mirror i peel them off--
clattering like jewels on tile floor

the drain gulps them down as they 
turn molten & melted under the shower head

pull back the foil & i'll open
my mouth to let out the steam-- the metal 
is contagious & soon enough you're 
bending me-- crinkling & folding.
you take a beetle between your
thumb & index finger & squash him
into a tight ball 

we'd find the carcasses & put them 
in wooden chest beside bismuth &
quartz-- the shine from the beetles
making nightlight voices from inside

open the cabinet when it talks to
you but don't be surprised when you
wake up silver or bronze-- there's no
such thing as gold-- there's just the 
right reflection in the body
of metallic animals

you know it's june because the 
sunsets are adolescent. the beetles 
are crowning everyone king who they see 

you're not special & neither am i
but you should keep the beetles
somewhere-- 

save them for the cold months 
when you can open the drawer &
make a sun out of them

crown me again though when i walk
down by the holly bushes & the flowers--

teach me metal forevers

at AcMoore 

i always run into god in an AcMoore
craft store aisle. you didn't notice him,
but he was perusing the little plastic 
animal figures beside us -- sticking handfuls 
of white tigers into his robe pockets. 

dad used to buy us each a plastic creature,
i was partial to the dinosaurs & you 
would sometimes get birds-- poised in flight.
the palm sized bald eagle bore her talons & 
my velociraptor left bite-marks on our forearms.

i wonder if there was a craft store before earth,
if maybe god went up there with a wad of allowance
to buy his first twenty statuettes-- humans with
their eyes still shut on the shelves. naming them
as he linoleum paced, back & forth.

i asked you & god what your favorite medium
is to work in. you say water colors & god says  
pastels, like me. we love the mess-- the thumbs 
marked with color. in high school we learned about
pastels by all drawing this same beach scene 

but i added blue to the sunset. is there a dozen
or so sunsets because of us? god smudges me-- leaves 
my face blurry & i loose track of the days.
he doesn't apologize for men who are artists never
have to apologize. back alone in his study

he sets the white tigers on the shelf. they
eat each other out of fear until only two are left.
god draws them between sips of coffee. me & you,
still in the craft store aisle. my own pastel
self is full of blended indigo-- i notice the

water in you. the bleeding the page.
i tell you that i love water color because i 
love having to start over again & again. i wonder
if god ever started a world of water color & gave up.
does it rest beneath his bed?

half-finished trees-- muddied brown leaves--
black: infectious in the creek. sky leaking
into our skin, we, sea foam green. if we should 
ever go there i would bring my plastic dinosaurs. 
let them go. drink the grass. disperse the sun.

fondue

all forks in the bathtub. my brother
swallows spoons from the peeling bathroom
floor. what are the towels for? hanging sideways
from clenched fists that thrust through
the wall years ago. they won't let go.
i wish my face in the sink & think gooey
cheese comes out the faucet-- scorching
hot & sizzling. all the drains clog with
apprehension. if you don't treat the house
like a body like a family like a vein
like a brother like a bowl in the sink--
then this is what happens. you're on 
your way home from work-- texting with 
your right hand & the tires turn into
wheels of cheese-- melt into the asphalt.
a fork comes down from between the clouds 
to skewer you & dip. gorgonzola & manchego--
i find the grater from the cabinet &
grate each of my pens into the bubbling pot. 
broth pours from the ceiling into the 
basement & dad breaks off the carpet &
rolls each into hamburger patties to kick
down the stairs. so many years i was scared
of those steps & the orange light that bled
from underneath the basement door as he'd
table-saw himself into quarters each night.
it was the kid's job to go downstairs &
piece him back together while he told us 
stories of the times he was in a band. 
this fondue is involuntary-- the melting
of our bodies trapped inside the house
on noble street-- windows sealed like lids.
i pound on the glass but the suction
is too tight. we might as well give in to it.
to the melting & the will of our bodies
to melt together. there are different 
types of un-becoming. this one is familial--
the stories we tell each other over &
over-- filling the bathroom & collecting
as fog on the mirrors. you tell
the story of the neighbor boy who 
she had a crush on & my brother joins
the priest hood before melting into
a pool of cheese. grips a fork for like.
i use my fork to push this mythology back down
my throat. no one wants to hear another
intrusive thought or a memory of falling
from the second floor window. if i can soften enough
here what will be left of me? my bones
turned marscapone & provolone-- white hot--
dip the meatballs-- the chicken fingers--
the celery sticks-- the baby carrot fingers. 
we all taste like salt, especially you.
i'm peeling the red wax from your smoked gouda skull.
you come home from work to all of this--
the house's siding slipping into a hole
in the earth. i hold a fork out for
you & you get in. we don't say anything 
this time. we eat quietly like a good family
like a good family.