giving blood i'm selfish to keep all my blood to myself-- my uncle always goes to blood banks because he has O negative blood-- i do too-- i don't really know what that means other than you can give blood to anyone i don't tell anyone that because i'm scared they'll start calling me like they call him-- telling him blood supplies are low i imagine my veins like a water park-- inner tubes shaped like 'O's to let swimmers know what kind of blood i have-- they stand on top of great tall slides-- maroon splashing as they fall-- i can feel them beneath my skin-- their flutter-kicks & air bubbles from their noses-- all of them frantic looking for more O negative blood-- they drip wine skulls crackng open on sidewalks like watermelons-- their mouths full of red & white light sirens-- whenever there's a blood drive near by i find new excuses to be somewhere else-- i tell my friends i'm too short to loose any blood or that i just got a tattoo & that they won't take it anyway-- sometimes i say that i'm gay & my blood is still probably crawling with their 80s diseases-- you don't want my blood-- my wonderlusted contamination-- would you start to stare out windows more? start kissing the back of your hand remembering what his skin felt like? would you develop an uncontrollable obsession with looking up their the branches of old oak trees? i would be worried for someone who shared blood with me-- could they teach themselves to cry like i do or would they feel fists in their veins? i'd want to find them no matter how many cities over they were i'd show up at the hospital ask to compare blue wrists-- i sometimes walk past the red cross van-- other people laying down with the tube in their arm-- i think of them as grownups as more grownup than me to be able to give blood to lay their draining themselves as the the clouds take to playing hopscotch out the tiny van windows-- i used to cross my arms & lay back as i slid down the metal slide at the park watched the clouds playing leap-frog-- on over another over another
Uncategorized
04/05
cemetery of hair i cut barbie doll hair i never had many dolls & i wanted them in a guilty kind of way i knew they were girly & i didn't want to be girly but i wanted to explore bodies-- when i'd go over other girl's houses for sleep overs i would always find their dolls-- i craved to be alone with them-- with their impossible waists & tangled plastic hair i recall a sleep over where i got up in the middle of the night to play alone with my friend's dolls i undressed them-- their skin grinning in the dim light coming in the windows i was fascinated by their nipple-less breasts-- their tip-toed feet poised almost like horse hooves i knew i wasn't shaped like them-- i ran my fingers over my stomach & my sides a red anjou pear dangling from a tree branch-- i drank nectar from aluminum cans did the other girls notice my haunting fascination? did they catch me-- dolls in my hands-- disrobing them respectfully one by one-- i had few of my own i hoarded the pair of big red scissors my mom used for cutting yarn cutting their plastic follicles on the floor of my bed room-- my own hair long down my back-- it was always mischief making knots to be yanked out in the morning before school tired mouth of my mother's brush-- i want to draw some deeper conclusion about us-- about us girls who cut our barbie's hair about how years later i would sit in a salon chair & tell them to take it all off-- even now i sometimes fantasize about clippers making a front lawn of my skull-- i want to tell the barber yes yes cut be down to the bone-- or maybe i cut barbie hair because i wasn't a girl at all-- making boys i re-dressed my dolls in GI-Joe shirts & camouflage pants-- sometimes making them clothes from scratch-- pipe-cleaners & felt-- but there are other girls yes, other girls who cut off their dolls hair-- do we have something in common? is it purely the sensation? the hair falling? the faint sensation of god-likeness for young girls who are learning that the word will always have a say over their bodies did we free our dolls then? we knew their hair wouldn't grow back but our always will-- even now i'm touching my face my hair my skin what can be erradicated with red scissors? will my skin someday be plastic-- trembling in my own girl-hands lit through the window by street light when i cut their hair i buried it in the soil behind the garage-- i walk on a cemetery of hair
foot washing
on holy thursday father schaffer washes 12 of our feet in memory of the last supper i was always glad it wasn't me i could almost feel his dry cracked hands move over my pinkish heels-- toe nails cliffs melting into the sea sometimes i'd brush against his skin as an altar server holding the bowl of water as he'd wash his hands before communion i was glad it wasn't me because i felt like i could never deserve that-- i couldn't imagine making the white-haired coat-hanger of a man kneel-- draped in purple lenten robes-- a crocus sobbing in the morning grass in front of the altar he washed the parishioners feet in round metal bowls they remind me now of the mixing bowls my mother & i used to soak our feet in peppermint scrub from the soap shop-- green plastic chairs in the living room watering becoming luke warm then cold, removing them my skin seemed to breath-- dripping on the carpet i think my mother deserves someone to wash her feet maybe not father schaffer or even jesus someone who'd be gentle we share callouses like wishing stones but there aren't wells deep enough for us to drop in-- so then was he jesus, is that the idea? or is the symbol that we should all wash each other's feet? i have always made my soles dirty on purpose-- august dusk chewing my heels stomp onion grass & whirligigs-- if our priest were to wash my feet what would he find in me? would he press deep into my arches-- find us on the back porch-- sky throbbing orange or would he trace the creases of my feet like a palm reading would he say: & here are your sons & your daughters & all your future lovers-- do i walk on them like branches? oh father whose apostle am i? if there were to be twelve of me which one would kiss & betray us? i don't want to be clean or for you to wash me-- i want to thrive peppermint-- i want to open my mouth wide as a crocus swallowing swallowing swallowing stones
04/04
how to tie a tie 1. i googled it-- sitting at my desk chair in my slightly wrinkled dress shirt-- no socks or pants-- my bare thighs-- 1. out the window snow visited april with it's fists bared-- 1. does your father hang his ties on the door knob of his closet? 2. are you hanging there too? 2. do you drape yourself on his shoulders in the hopes that he'll tie you a sturdy knot 2. i've never seen my father make the knot 2. does he use a bathroom mirror? watching himself-- black hair on his knuckles his wedding ring patient on the lip of the sink-- does he run water when he's nervous like me? 3. ties just appear on my father's neck at holidays-- 3. a life of their own-- they hiss & spit-- silk & polyester skin shed on coat hangers-- paisley tongues flicking shadow-- 4. will they leave teeth marks? fangs human incisors hole punched along my neck-- 4. have you ever bit down on the back of your hand? 5. in 5th grade we had a "tie day" for spirit week & i remember my father taking out a multi-color splatter-paint tie from his closet kneeling-- as if to knight me adjusting the sides-- my shirt didn't have a collar so the tie wrapped fingers around my neck-- we looked at each other in the bathroom mirror-- ran fingers through my short brown hair 6. oh sun daughter son daughter-- what kind of mirrors will you need when this one no longer holds you? 6. there were always snakes on animal planet i thought of the great big constrictors their bodies like fat udon noodles tighter & tighter each time you breathe 7. who taught my father? 7. is it something innate? a secondary sex characteristic chromosomally written-- knots in our blood 8. i try the windsor knot there's a diagram on a website called "the art of manliness" i feel like art-- specifically like a performance art piece one you would see in a fuzzy television at a gallery 9. what does my body mean? naked legs-- hair twitching in the air from the fan 9. over under over under-- 9. i get it wrong a few times-- undo tangled tongue-- 10. i don't believe in men 10. i don't believe in men but my father has course thick hands 10. when i finally tie it right i'm in the bathroom mirror-- all of me-- fingers on glass 11. does anyone every escape the tightening of the constrictors scaled body? 11. i'm eleven years old again checking for teeth marks 11. my father is my same height for once-- balancing his tie on his shoulders 11. i watch him over under over under pulled to his neck
04/03
romaine you don't undress me anymore will you touch me then like a head of romaine lettuce i want to get smaller & smaller with each frilled-edge leaf-- how many dresses are there left before we reach skin? at the kitchen table mom tore each leaf into portions to fit in our mouths washed in the sink-- the dirt up their white legs reminded me of walking back to the car at the beach as the sand flicked up my thighs-- when you clean me use cold water-- i want you to feel my goosebumps-- my hairs cornfield raising-- have you ever made love to a green skin boy before? did you think i would be endive or watercress? bitter & deeper in color-- i buy lettuce pre-packaged now-- ice berg because i like the crunch of bone-- at the salad bar you would say that ice berg was only water-- does water have a skeleton? ribs & a collar bone to coat hang me on-- flecks of carrot & bruised purple cabbage-- there i am peeling the carrots over the trash can in our red-floored kitchen mom shakes a mason jar of Caesar dressing-- oh of all emperors of Rome we resolved to eat a betrayed body-- sometimes i feel like loving someone is like holding a dagger under your robe-- what are you waiting for? don't you want to be God? we don't eat olive branches we eat with forks-- do you have a metal bowl big enough for us once you've taken me apart? gong-ringing as you set it on the counter-- are we getting inside then? me & you asleep on the hard backs of garlic-butter croutons crumbs in our teeth-- i'm still wearing my wrinkled teal button-up shirt i don't know how to iron-- i can see the one in my parent's house on the top shelf in the laundry closet i wouldn't know how to use it though-- will you kiss me with steam? i want us to fog on the windows-- to leave hand prints-- as i peeled down to the heart & the romaine leaves began to shrink they would also flatten out as if letting go of all the tension in their bodies-- uncurl your toes & let your hair fall out like a clump of oak leaves-- i wanted to make all the lettuce flat as a pie crust-- i pressed each blade to my thighs-- pushing down & praying for a horizon-- will you love me then? standing in the salad bowl? barefoot & in my boxers-- wearing a wrinkled dress shirt crunching ice bergs wash the dirt off my thighs--
the gym
i go to the gym every morning to run on a treadmill-- i don't really know whether or not it's healthy-- it's part of my OCD but to a certain point most everything is-- there's this old man with fuzzy white hair & grainy stubble who always wears a neon green t-shirt & he came over to me at the gym & said "you're here every day do you ever miss a day?" i pretended to laugh even though i was thinking about how i don't ever miss a day he said "do you live here?" i shook my head & put the other earbud-- when i run i don't actually want to think about anything-- sometimes when i talk about it i tell people that i run outside-- that treadmills are so inhuman & mechanical but the truth is that i love that-- i love to be able to be precise-- contained-- my body making numbers-- making miles-- i imagine myself running enough to build an island-- strip by strip like a paint roller-- my father used run in the mornings he tells me he ran five miles along dekalb pike-- weeds thrashed at him-- a coke can clinked as it rolled on the other side of the street-- did his shoes wear down as quickly as mine do? what was the day that he stopped? i don't like to think about not running-- even holidays yesterday was easter & my gym was closed but i still found an indoor track-- silent & cavernous the building echoed with my breath-- there is something religious about the treadmill people find that strange because we think that God only lives in nature-- i just want my body to feel used-- when i was younger & i was fat my father took my brother & i to the high school track & he tried to teach me how to run-- i sprinted because i wanted to be faster than him & billy but i only got about half-way around before i had not air left-- cold breath in april when our bodies are re-discovering dew-- you can't teach someone to run-- i woke up one morning a few years ago with the desire-- i hungered for it-- white socks & shoelaces-- i did run outside-- up & down the trail-- my father ran by-- 19 years old-- staring forward-- he didn't notice me
04/02
yellow lights we drove home last night & every stop light turned yellow for us i've been having trouble giving myself over to poetry lately-- i hesitate to fall all the way in-- to drown idea-- can we just talk here now then & maybe something will come up? so what if there's nothing profound to say about stop lights? what if someone else has said it better? i pressed my forehead to the cool glass of the window as the road twisted & turned like a piece of yarn-- i joke that they should make all roads in one straight line towards where every i have to go-- directly through the mountains-- no meandering-- no room for antique shops to emerge from the soil with their rusty OPEN signs born from condemned heavens-- there were deer in the woods beside us-- their eyes flickering like silver dollars-- do they know the roads or are they surprised every time a station wagon like yours crawls by in the night-- high beams cutting shadows from trees-- i think of all the times i drove home alone through thickets of trees-- i fantasized about the car breaking down even though i told everyone that i would be terribly anxious if it did-- i think we all like small catastrophes-- you say you've never hit an animal & i think about that one time driving home from my aunt's house for thanksgiving when i hit a ground hog pulled over on the side of the road to see if somehow it had lived-- i didn't cry but i backed away slowly & drove home without talking to anyone i don't think i said much last night letting myself lilt in & out of your conversations i smiled & imagined myself as a green minnow net or maybe the egret we saw on the way there-- tall celery stick legs dipped in the brook-- i watch cars go by-- pose for them & watch the humans as they press faces to windows & beam-- i have nothing to do with destinations or rubber tires-- my neck is a serpenting path to Bethlehem-- the one made of steel if i were to be put in charge of making new roads i would score the earth like the squares on my red & black flannel-- a perfect grid a quilt-- our car would be a single checker moving space by space by space-- slowly through a yellow light-- we didn't stop once-- celestial gold glint in the rear view mirrors-- oh maybe there it is-- the profound thing i was looking for-- i tell you how the only thing i learned in statistics class is that the randomness of every stop light is all it's own-- each pass the same chance of any color--
04/01
i bought a watch men buy watches, yes? that's what we do to accessorize-- brown leather & the metal buckle-- i wear mine with two notches left-- it's almost too tight but i think it's the sort of thing you just have to get used to-- my father never wore a watch & it makes me wonder how he knew what time it was when we would go to bowers park-- after it rained the creek would overflow & make mucky the forest floor-- tadpole eggs stared up at us-- handfuls of irises-- embryos blinking-- i had blue waterproof sandals-- the type with velcro & dad wore his grass stained new balance we left when the sun got orange enough to be a clementine-- were our bodies sundials? our shadows the hands of some master clock like the white headed tower looming over kutztown chiming fickle-ly on the hour & sometimes the half-- the clock in the dashboard of the jeep rebelled against time for as long as i can remember a gold pocket watch in the glove box occasionally tethered us to the rest of the world-- i don't think he ever checked it-- he taught me how to skip stones-- each rock smooth & cool ticking as they dropped beneath the surface-- that's what i've noticed most about wearing a watch i don't always hear it but driving home yesterday at a stop light i became aware of it-- finger nails drumming car windows-- teeth chewing themselves-- the noise coming in & out of focus-- my wrist made ferris wheel-- there we sit in the grand stands at fair in august waiting for fireworks-- paper wrist bands as handcuffs-- my dad asked someone near by for the time 9:27pm they would start any minute now-- i practice checking my wrist-- it's performative-- i'm saying look-- i have watch now-- does that make me a man? do the watches all speak to each other then? leaving some clocks behind-- is your body a few minutes fast? a language of clicking tongues Morris Code of Morris Code-- do they tell stories of us then? about a girl-boy in at a stop light trying to understand their language a boy in a bathroom mirror practicing how to check his watch-- i smirk at the thought of my father wearing one he washes his hands too much of paint-- what kind of man wears a watch? not just any watch but a brown watch with a bold dazed face from the clearance section at target my cheek bones have minute hands-- each eye-lid ticking-- do you speak time? where do you keep your sundials? the creek at Bowers floods in april & the frogs will tell stories of us-- their children observing us blinking as sun peels itself citrus
03/31
invisibility cloaks & where to find them 1. sleepover-wrapped ourselves in green comforters-- closed eyes & fumbled in nightlight fire-- i'm not sure why we'd shut our eyes but it seemed to enhance the idea that we had found invisibility-- & when i'd open mine i watched you-- arms stretched out-- feeling for the legs of my bunk bed-- 2. what we move when we think we're alone with our body-- 2. alone in my room i ran my hand along the carpet in search of the back of an earring & discovered an unsee-able texture 3. closed my eyes & pulled the clothe like a plastic bag over my head 3. the mirrors in the house fogged over & i re-arranged my brother's quarter collection-- stealing the ones from Georgia to devour the big juicy silver peach 4. when was the first time you found an invisibility cloak? 4. was it underneath a greening heads-up penny? did you keep it in your pencil case? 5. did you stay up past your bedtime to see what adults watch on tv at night? 5. dark screen & my mother's shiny pink knitting needles clicking like finger nails on the windows 6. recess under the oak tree the boys played football with the round rubber playground ball & the girls hung upside down on the jungle gym-- 6. i crouched--knees in dirt unfurled the cloak-- pulled over my shoulders a stick to dig in the earth-- wrote my name to remind myself that there was a body left somewhere for me even 7. i began to use it more frequently without intention kept it folded in the top of my desk 7. during silent reading time i'd slip it one & pace the single yellow-tile hallway outside class examining teachers open their packed lunches lowfat yogurts & lean cuisines-- smell of coffee grains from the grey trash bin-- 8. i'd go to the bathroom remove the cloak to stand in the mirror-- trace the lines of my training bra beneath my shirt-- re-dress-- eyeing myself as i became comfortable & blank 8. i thought of my uncle's grey artist's erasers-- the ones you can mold into different shapes-- i rubbed them on my skin till it turned red 8. ambled invisibly into the boys-- the urinals like space pods the soap was sterile & pink like ours i washed my hands-- 9. my younger brother noticed the disappearing one afternoon asked if he could try i didn't want him to feel snared like i did kept it in my pillowcase & we balanced on the railroad tracks that dusk-- he asked if the trains ever come through kutztown anymore 10. growing up is probably best done without invisibility 10. i've made up memories to fill in the gaps drawn in crayon & ball point pen on the roots of the oak tree 10. next time you sleepover you will tell me that you wear wire bras i took mine off in your bathroom mirror time lapsed & the sun dipped & rose-- dipped & rose like a round corn chip in fresh salsa cilantro also smells like strong rain 11. in 7th grade we dissected starfish & afterwards i lost control slipped into the cloak-- i was thinking of how the mouth of the star fish is at the center-- all debris moving inward-- i ended up in the dark of the kiln room-- i think the art teacher knew i hide there the beaded door rustled as she flicked off the light & headed home 12. let me show you how to be unobserved 13. close your eyes & wait for the sensation of clothe over your face-- the embalming fluid will taste like cilantro or rain 14. in the 10th grade my mother caught me late at night disappearing i was supposed to have been better we cried on the carpet of my bed room in the shadow of my bunk bed's skinny thighs-- used each other like microphones-- i don't remember what she said to me 15. it is best done with a friend-- do you trust me? 16. trust has the texture of brown paper napkins like ones in public bathrooms or Chick-fil-a 17. there are so many invisibilities here on the floor of this bedroom-- 17. wrap yourself in a comforter what would you do if your skin was invisible? 17. all that blood salsa red as the tumbling sun 18. empty the mirrors 19. don't let them know 20. get older 21. trace the railroad tracks under your shirt 21. call your brother but don't let him know you have skin
03/30
continuity your mother used to say that you should be a continuity editor someone who notices slight changes between clips of the movie-- the coke bottle shifted to the left-- the baseball hat turned backwards-- laying in your bed in the flicker of television you'd pause the movie & point out the amending position of the sun-- you'd pause me as i stood up & searched the carpet for my bras & my t-shirt-- you'd rewind me back under covers where you'd stand on my freckles like stepping stones-- loving you was so much like making a movie-- calling "cut" the walls were made of camera lenses continuity: meaning the unbroken & consistent existence i don't wear dresses anymore & i don't eat greek yogurt like i used to on your porch with the espresso spoons-- i don't read the bible & i don't want to move to the city-- do you still want to by a house on the shore in Maine? i see the foundations slipping into the rocky shore like glaciers-- i won't ask you to be a continuous person-- this time i'm the one with the video-- the one with the rewind button-- i put your clothing back on only your shirt is inside out-- i kiss you like the back of my hand-- this is for all the times you opened my mouth to pull out the film-- peering at each frame & combing for a scheme for me-- did you notice when i counted calories on my phone calculator? did you you know i set timers so that i would be home before ten? stepping in the squeaky white screen door shoelaces undone-- i want to tell you that i've spent too many nights in dark rooms-- peeling pictures out of my skin & developing them into memories-- as if i could ever hold us still do you remember when i said i wanted children? when i said i wanted to be a doctor & slip into your last name-- that i wanted to write romance novels with it? i peel apart your name letter by letter like the lobes of a clementine-- i don't know if i loved you but over a period of time we became irreconcilable bodies-- cameras gaping with their red record buttons-- you peel my bra like the label of a coke bottle
Robin Gow 