bailisk

what is it exactly
that happen in the eye of
the basilisk?

is this where black holes 
send their teeth?

where the ocean's
bottoms give out & everything
is sucked down the drain

i'm sitting on the edge
of my parent's bathtube
with a trickle of blood 
trailing from my heel 
like a ribbon

razor in my hand

i feel bad for him

crawling along on
his stomach 

does he learn to 
walk with his eyes closed?

afraid to stare at 
even the blades of grass
for fear they'll wither
turn brittle & dry 
contorting like match sticks

i have always been bad
at making eye contact

his eyes pours out
all over me-- battery acid 
on the bed sheets

i keep the burns to myself 
& tucked me knees into
my chest

become a dried lima bean 
& wait for them to use
me as a bingo chip

on occasion he punishes himself
with his own reflection 
in the water

the smell of rain 
coaxing him out of his
hole dug out of the musty earth

this is the pond
where my father & i would
fish with potato bread on
the hook

& the algae would come
like green bride's veils
to keep us from looking
beneath the surface

he moves away the plant
matter until he can 
make out his aching shadow
on the surface

i'm watching from
the bench where the ducks
are biting each other
necks over bread crusts

we we're allowed to have
white bread but we could
feed it to the ducks

the sight of
his body gives him a dull pain
like fingers on 
a cold metal railing

he stares longer than he should
until his head throbs & he can
feel every single rib
like a second mouth

i wipe the mist from the bathroom
mirror & watch the surface 
of the moon leaving blotches
on my cheeks & forehead

i want a face wash to scrub
out all the details

blank mannequin face

no eyes & smooth nose 

level the earth like
dynamite bloody in the ankles
of the mountain

i want to comfort him

to tell him that he doesn't
have to keep trying to find
meaning in his suffering

i wish someone would
have told me that a long
time ago

before i tried to make 
metaphors out of my own
bones & flesh

he comes back 
to mirrors & dark windows
to get an idea of what could
be so horrible about
his eyes that they kill
instantly

he weeps in the park bathroom

& curls up alone
like an apostrophe

i want to find him

i can find something on
the ceiling to stare at while
i pet the back
of his head with my thumb

oh basilisk

there is nothing fair
about what bodies we get

but we can make do 

i want to see 
you through the algae
on the surface of the lake

we can eat the leftover
potato rolls & gaze off
in opposite directions
like past lovers 

on one last rendezvous

above all we know that no one
sees monsters & gods
more perfectly than children 

orange rind september dusk 
& the ghost cicada chorus of dead summer

i sat in the tall grass with the
May brothers & Tommy Hyer from
two blocks over

i wouldn't be born for
another forty-four years 

i practiced the bildungsroman 
with them

between broken pine tree branches
& yellow-faced pitcher plants
the flatwoods mistook us for
its long lost sons

turned into brush fire years ago

catching red-bellied salamanders
Eddy Mays had poured his mother's
raspberry jam out on the side of
road to use the mason jar to hold them

their skin car-hood glossy 
& eye balls as inside-out stars

wasn't it three children 
who saw the virgin of guadalupe 
& fatima?

are all monsters virgins
more or less?

some with snake heads to stand on

on the edge of farmer Bailey's
cattle fields you rose up

the brothers would recall you
surrounded by mist as thick
& green as cucumber skin

Tommy would say he swore the
fog was grey like his nana's long
church going-skirts

i could only see your 
red piercing eyes-- the cowl
like a halo behind your head

what makes a body in human?

why do so many monsters find
themselves like this? with irises
the color of salamander skin
& tail lights?

did you mean to choose us then?

trusting young boys with
your dark figure

did you imagine we might talk
there for awhile?

i'm sorry i ran from you

i am forty-four years 
older now & i wanted to tell
you that i would stay if
you came to find me now

you would like pennsylvania
& the corn fields hide foxes to
keep you company 

i would feed them watermelon
rinds in late august when 
i felt alone

i didn't visit the neighborhood
boys after that

but i watched the sherif search
the earth for remnants of visit

his flash light like a butter knife
through the dark

they'd find skid marks:
evidence of your space craft
or was it a time machine?

you don't have to tell me 
i'm only here to say that i
believe you & your anatomy 

some say you could have been
a barn owl but i talked to the
barn owls-- they say 
that humans often look for
comfortable explanations 

for bodies they don't want to understand

self defense 

I.
the wrist grab. lined up in two rows 
facing each other in our black uniforms.
hard wood floor & bare foot & ceiling fan. 
dad had helped me tie my belt, knelt
in front of me, careful as he recalled the knot.
the weak spot is between the fingers where
you twist to break free & step backwards.
someone grabs you in the wet alley way 
on main street-- the one you & your brother
peer down when you walk back from the library.
you remember the motions perfectly &
thrown them over your shoulder onto the cement ground,
shattered like a green beer bottle.

II.
the gun. we learned that if someone pulls
a gun on you that there is nothing you can do.
you kneel & pray. they didn't tell us to pray
but it was assumed. i told dad on the jeep ride
home that i would try & knock it out of their hands
at least. he didn't say anything. the gun is a lot
like a mouth. maybe if they would have taught us 
a move i would have known what to do when he 
opened his mouth that wide. how do you defend yourself
against a kiss when you don't have enough time
to figure out if you're going to want it? 
pressed me into a brick wall like a thumb tac.
there's nothing you can do. you kneel. you pray.

dear college

i was scared to write
this poem because i know
already that it's too big for me

dear college i have
gotten smaller

dear college what will
you remember about me?

dear 7:14 am alarm clock
dear move-in

dear rear view mirrors
painted on the front
door of my parent's house

dear august humidity
how you came back around
to remind me of the 
oceans worth of water evaporating
from my body while i wasn't looking

dear rivers i have filled

dear fountain & my wet bare feet

dear freshman hall & 
biology notes in the corridors  

dear blue hair 
dear burned pop-corn
& butter on the back
of my knuckles

dear first-year roommate
you asked me in july about color 
coordinating the room

dear mini fridges
& nirvana poster 

dear thrift-store lamp
& white light on wooden desks

dear sun coming
in the window of Wilkinson 314 
on the last day while
i continued the process
of emptying a body

dear JD Salinger
who lived up the hall
did you ever sit under
the oak tree in hunsberger woods?

did you look at the fields 
rolling away 

the children lost in them

dear catcher in the rye 
i've come back to you
like a key ring

dear bobby fong
the bag pipes from your funeral 
woke me up that saturday

dear boy who i called 
on the phone before 
8am spanish
who kissed me in the back seat
of his silver honda
glare of the ball field lights
in the window 

i forget who recently
i would have given everything
for you

dear intro to creative
writing we wrote our hearts

dear Sappho we were lovers
meeting at the wrong time

dear snows i have walked through

dear bus stop in pottstown

dear RA who covered
the bathroom mirrors for
the day-- it was me who 
tore off the paper to put on
eye liner

dear rose on the windowsill

dear bracelet you gave me 

dear boy we had wednesdays
dear boy i still think
of you almost every time i 
hear a bird call

dear professor i keep the comments
you left on my first poem
dear professor i'm re-drafting my body
dear professor i never said thank you
dear professor in ten years will
you remember my paper about 
our lady of guadalope?
or my poem about my father & kurt vonnegut?

dear books piling up in my closet

dear rocky horror supplies
in the basement

dear lost left socks

dear measuring cups
i keep telling myself i will
out grow you

dear OCD my third roommate

dear roommate i'm sure
i woke up some mornings 

dear roommate read me
that poem you wrote about irish rain

dear roommate i'll
miss our lamp light

dear friend will you turn
the oven on for me?

dear friend your poetry shakes
the cherry blossoms from
the trees in olin plaza

dear friend the ceiling wears
your fret board

dear friend we made it
dear friend our skin eats 
scars like watermelon rinds

dear friend we're comets
coming back around 

dear friday night
in the park pavilion

dear adirondack chairs 

dear lost claddagh ring

dear pink sun dress
whose body are you blooming for?

dear boy our bodies left shadows
like finger prints on 
my bedroom wall

dear room at the bottom
of the library
you have been my bones

dear quiet hours
dear stairwell phone call

dear girlhood
i loved your red lipstick
kiss my bathroom mirror 
while you go

dear Olin 3 
i take the stairs

dear movie nights
dear halloween makeup 
dear drag shows

dear lit soc
we could never read enough poetry

dear GSA you gave 
my blood vocabulary

dear person i believe there
is something good about being a man
because of you

dear college was i enough?

dear college

dear blood 
dear hair shaved to the scalp

dear walk to dairy queen 
on the first weekend
& the picture we took
of us all crammed into the booth

dear red spoons 

dear college 
dear seasons 
passing through you
like the minute
hand on a watch face

dear college do you
feel us leave?

dear college are you 
all tuition & stone?

dear muscles & flesh
dear graduations 

dear chapel i have
always regretted not going back 

dear god 
the last time
i believed in you without doubts
was in the mouth of reverend rice
on a snowy april morning
when he told me after service 
that him & god 
would always be there to
come back to 
no matter who i loved &
who i became

as long as i am  person of love

dear college 
have i loved enough?

dear all of you

you deserve crocuses 
& poetry without rhyme

dear english majors
there's only so much 
you can close read 

dear college
dear endings come
in waves

& almost always without
god or warning

phoenix 

i'm looking for
a better metaphor than 
a phoenix out of the ashes

i want to know
if the burning hurts him
or if he's numb to
the sensation of fire
after all of these years 
living through cycle 
after cycle of ash birth 
& flame

does he feel it coming

an aching deep beneath
the feathers in his chest

like a match being struck 
all the way up
his throat

i was telling you about
the trees in the pine barrens 

the ones with serotiny
which means that their seeds
only open in great heat
or fire

how the whole forest
set itself on fire 
& runs wild

legs cut-off at the knees

& falls into the 
copper water

i'm asking what does 
the phoenix have
to do with these trees?

does he live in the bark
microscopic & patient

does he light a fire
at the base of the tree
to encourage the process 
to begin

we were talking about
the ashes of our grandparents
& i said that i hope
that no one wastes time
burying me when i'm dead

i hope they take me
to the pine barrens 
where i can learn from
the trees & the phoenix

this isn't a call for
a rebirth 

this is a call for
what else we can do with fire

my grandfather sits
curled up inside a little 
black box in our attic

knees tucked into his
chest like an infant 

his ashes a bed to rest on

should we plant him
in the rocks under the pine tree?

should we leave him
to the devices of 
mythical birds?

if you give ashes enough
time will they encounter
the phoenix 
& all his temptations?

as he scratches at his
own skin from the discomfort
of coming fire

i feel that too
alone in bed at night 

the kindling & forest brush
in my rib cage starting
to smoke

the breeze from my 
air conditioner spurring it
forward

like most kinds of pain

we make the phoenix romantic 

& forget the combat
with endings in blaze

the refusal to burn

the thrashing of
the bird on the dead leaves 
as he asks god not
to make him come
out of the ashes again

to let him finally 
finally rest

i will not wake
my grandfather 

& i will sit in the bathtub 
until my own body smolders

a stream of smoke
from my eyelids &
the back of my throat

i cough ash-- 
viscous now like
wet saw dust

used match sticks
caught in my teeth

oh god oh god

next time the phoenix 
bursts open like
a red carnation 

will you let me go
with it?

only this time
let the bird sleep

& let me wake up

take a shower

wash the ash down the drain 
& take in 
my new body

I.
billy gets white rice & eats it with 
parmesan cheese in one of the blue & yellow kitchen bowls.
i always get chicken fried rice. i pick through
the oily grains to find flecks of scrambled egg.
we're at the breakfast counter & dad eats standing up--
licks general tsao's brown sauce from his thumb
before flicking on the tv for background noise.

II.
some nights you open my chest like a take-out box.
the little metal handle to carry me by.
i tell you non-essential things like how we'd 
get wanton soup for when my mom got home late from work.
like how billy & i would eat chinese leftovers
cold out of the fridge from the white boxes 
early in the morning before our parents got up. 

portrait

on uncle rich's side
of the house there's 
this one portrait he did

the canvas left sideways 
leaning against 
the white wall of his down stairs

it's kept company by partial paintings
& old art school projects 

one of the arch angel gabriel
holding a scroll to his chest

another is a quiet & mundane
oil painting of
a leather jacket slung over
the back of a red chair

when i was still living
at my parent's house i 
would sneak over there 

if the door was locked 
i would climb in through
the window

removing the screen & setting
it out on the porch

it's the small escapes
that we need

dipping my feet into 
his old paintings 

i liked to imagine
him so much younger

my uncle sitting in a studio
with a paint brush in his hand 

i don't remember
many times where i caught
him like that 

in an act of creation 

i'd vanish into his old works

leaning back in the red chair
& trying on his old leather jacket

the sleeves were always too long 

there's that one portrait 

he told me that an older woman
asked him to paint it of her
husband who passed away

that she gave him
two pictures-- 
one of the man aged & grey-haired
one of him smiling & youthful--
baseball bat slung over his shoulder

she told him to simply put
the younger man's smile 
on the older man's face

a project of surgery &
acrylic paints 

the man nods to me when i visit

watches me as i peruse 
sunsets & blotchy pallets

he fixes his hair:
slicked back & wavy--
a storm cloud grey with
hints of his old brown curls

he's got
coat hangers in his cheeks

i think he dresses well 

a red tie & white collared shirt

i often wonder if he was
buried in something similar 

of course his wife found
him unnatural

& refused to pay for 
the painting

that hurt his feelings
(the portrait-- not my uncle's)

sometimes he'll leave
the frame & weep in 
the stairwell up to uncle rich's
bed room

i'd hand him a dish rag
to wipe his face

& he won't be able to
stop smiling

reaching for the corners 
of his mouth sewn into
a grin

many nights after rich
came home from 2nd shift 

his sobs would shake the
foundation of the house

& i would come back to
comfort him

there we'd hold each other 

he'd always apologize
for waking me 

& i'd put a finger to his
mouth like a mother

we'd take a stroll in
the painting on the wall 
of the ocean at chincoteague island

the one with hints 
of orange & purple in 
the sunset 

i'd pick up a conch shell
& hold it to his ear  

eventually he'd fall asleep

heavy, i'd lug him
back to his canvas--
prop him up in position

& sneak back up into
my own bed  

I.
cascadia: evergreened & modest with her clouds
what kinds of animals leave tracks with no bodies?
this is how memory becomes inflictive
how the black bears know their own kind
compare their feet to the great steps pressed into earth
the mountain makes little distinctions 
about the skeletons left on her porch 

II.
i lay in your foot prints & feel the soil
taking back my skin & finger nails & hair
i'm thinking about walking in the backyard
after a january blizzard & pretending like
i could decipher the prints left in snow
maybe here you can meet me even if it's only 
an encounter between our no-longer anatomies

scales 

there was a scales
in the upstairs bathroom
of the aunt's house

the bathroom with
the pink tile & 
the monogrammed towels 
all in a row
F, J, M

i went up there
first out of haunting
curiosity 

open all medicine 
cabinets if you have
the chance

the scale was one
of those old manual 
ones with the dial 
that sprung alive
with my weight

i don't remember 
how heavy i was but

i remember being startled
by the concrete evidence
of my body

i blame gravity

afterwards they cropped
up other places

mischievous & greedy 

making numbers of me

on the winding gravel
path in the park

in the shower

at the window
of my bedroom where 
a books lay on
the floor peeled open 
like clementines

i'd feel the texture
beneath my toes
the bumpy surface
of the weighing device

this has nothing
to do with stomachs
or fat 

this has to do with 
the steady increase
of gravity since we were
children 

have you noticed it?

how the air 
is getting viscous 
like butter on
the counter

my father gives in

he keeps a scale
in my parent's bedroom

checks himself every morning

measures his soul by
the notches of his
belt loops

i know that they're 
contagious & that it's only
a matter of time
before the whole floor
of the house is scales

they emerge on
walls & beside light
fixtures

beneath the pillow

how much do you weigh
on a day like today 
when the earth is pulling
us in so tight?

i can feel the tides
aching--

the scales washing up
on the shore like 
horseshoe crabs

i peel them off the floor

hurling each out the
window into 
the front lawn 

where my father runs them
over with the lawn mower

this isn't about
the anorexia 

this isn't about the 
violin shape of
my old torso 

this is about the 
becoming of numbers

we're both like this
my father & i

& the button-up shirts
of hist that i'll 
never fit in

prone to quantities

afflictions of measurement

while he sleeps
i sometimes sneak 
into his room & tear

all the number out
of the scale

sucking them out like
venom spat onto the carpet

next with the alarm clock

whose angry face
stares through the walls
of the house

each number hot
as summer asphalt
as i pluck them out

i sneak back into
my room & sleep with
the light on

weigh myself unintentionally 

the scale laughing 
as big as the whole room

i'm sleeping
on the floor of
the pink bathroom 

using the aunt's hand towels
for blankets

if i don't
check the number

i can be as dense 
enough to make my own
gravities 

as light as the dried
clementine skin
on the counter 

the books blown open
on the floor of my bedroom 

oh number us, please 

cursive

speak 
to me in cursive

i want "o"s around
my wrists like
handcuffs

tie me to your tongue 

we learned cursive 
on lined paper

my second grade teacher
who pulled words from
our fingers like 
cassette tape ribbon

speak yourself undone

if i could take back 
what i said to you
on that night 

the words i typed
& deleted from 
a text message as i
sat in the driver's seat
of my car

the lot 
made angels in empty 
parking spots

shadows of gigantic  
"Q"s & "Z"s

the letters
i've long forgotten
how to hold hands with

when we hold hands 
i feel like a necklace clasp 

& i think of asking
my mother to clip my 
red beaded chain behind 
my neck

what are the occasions 
you assemble yourself 
in cursive?

do you fall into 
the yarn bin & 
dig fingers into spools

soft navy blue &
coarse brown like 
the blocky winter coat
she would make that december

i save cursive for
love poetry 

only i don't leave spaces
between words

don't let them come up
for air

hold their heads down
in the bath tub

while they thrash &
spit & cough water
from their noses

i write words 
so desperate for air 
that they only know your name

what should we do
with our lined paper?

i'm waiting for
the train to come 
& knock it all down

smashed snakes on the tracks

tails writhing

leaving their "L"s 
flattened & graceless

i love the cursive letter "F"

it remind me of a
man with a curly mustache 

there was one who used
to give communion 
at church & he put
the papery-wafer into
my hands 

while i imagined him 
as a letter

knotted in on the 
train tracks

will you pull the lever
& send the engine
the other direction

i don't really have
a signature anymore

i just scribble
& it's as good as my name

i used you write
boys & girls names on the back
of my math homework

upside & in cursive

hang the world by
its feet

entwined in the branches
of the willow trees 
up next to the flea market

that way no one could
read them

we're still hanging there
you & me

i'm twisting 
our shoelaces together

to make a word