salt lamps

your mother bought
pink himalayan salt
lamps for your house--

ones for every corner--
glowing soft & magenta 
in the dusk of august

she explained to us
that the salt was
for cleansing--

for attracting all
the toxins & purifying 
our bodies 

were we in need 
of decontamination?

did the lamps
strip us of our negative ions?

did i lose part of myself--
my own sweet infections--

alone in our
pajamas you touched the
surface & licked
your fingers

i did the same

bitter salt

we kissed each other
too much-- 
sodium mouthed--

what was it that
made out skin pink?

was it 
the light of your
mother's salt lamps?

trace hints of magnesium, 
potassium, and zinc 
in our bones--

your shoulders
becoming mountains in
the haunting blush of light--

we left the lamp 
on as we fell asleep because
i was still young enough
to be afraid of the dark--

& in the night the
salt lamp grew-- 

yearning home among
grander mountains 
than us--

stretching out shadows 
in the hope
of making us taller 
& full of snow--

aching to press into
the sky--

did the rocks want
to return?

did they remember 
what it was like
to be massive & 
immovable?

& then there we were
children with pollution
in our hair from
the fire pit in the yard--

i woke up to see 
you growing-- becoming
jagged & pinnacle--

your skin became a fear of mine--

your lips cracked like 
the earth's crust--

i would wake up
to watch watch you
change as you slept

to watch myself 
fail to produce summits

i remember the
last time i kissed you
& it meant something

you were asleep &
the salt lamps 
were making us clean--

can we be pure again?

on the horizon as
the sun went down
i noticed the man 
who harvests them-- 

course hands digging into
himalayan throats--
blood pink on  underneath
his finger nails 
as he works

does he feel like a killer?

does he work for
some greater moral good--
the project of holier 
young skin--

the air we breathe
became magenta & gold--

the stars themselves
wanted in live in your
bed with us--

there was
no amount of pink mountains
that could unburden me

i watched your shadows 

kissed your forehead
& your eyes flickered  

you tasted like salt

& the pea 

i arrived on
a dark & stormy night

to me rain always smells
like the soft skin 
of toads  

was i an amphibian 
before arriving here?

was i a skink or 
a salamander-- orange & red

i slipped between your fingers
& down the grates in the 
side walk where all
water goes to gossip--

i rang the door bell
to the house in fleetwood--

the one by the railroad tracks

crouched in the 
tanning factory's shadow 

dripping like a stalactite
 
my mother & father 

opened the front door
to find a girl 
soaked to her skeleton--

wet feet on hard wood
floor

it is well known 
that princesses come
into the world like
this-- 

ominous & un-announced

did they pray as they
found me dry clothing?

did they ask god what
they would do with
so sudden a human--

as i grew up 
i often would wake up through
the night--

sat at the end of the bed
& talked to the red digital
clock--

asking for more bed time stories--

i did not notice
growing up-- the house shedding
it's walls & regrowing
on main street--

when the other girls would
play princess at 
recess 

i never knew
which one i'd want to be
because i thought it
would give me away--

i strolled off &
climbed the oak trees
shadow trunks--

i'd keep the bruises
to myself like all girls do--

long sleeves & scarves--

women's bodies are made for
hide & go seek

go seek the world 
beneath all the world's
mattresses where no
one will hear your sleeping

this is (of course)
the story of 
princesses & peas

canned peas eaten with
a metal soup spoon
from the cupboard

this is for 
our fruit cocktail
souls-- 

picking out the cherries--

was i born from metal 
or rain?

of bunk beds & boys
who conquer them--

i used to bruise so
easily-- alarm clocks
grabbing my forearms with 
fingernails--

i'd get up at 4:05am
it was compulsive--

a kind of rent paid
for being a princess 

what are you doing
sitting so still in
that body?

cutting rows of
corn into the wallpaper--

skin coming apart like gills--

i learned to breathe 
from my wrists--

lifted the mattresses
to add more & more peas--

this is punishment for
the body-- this is how
we learn to sleep 
in the minefield--

sometimes when you
kiss me i bruise &
i don't tell you

i stare at the alien
purple skin

in the dim light
of my bedroom--

nebulas erroding
under my flesh &

i pour a can of
peas out into my
hand--

slide each one carefully
beneath the sheets--

oh bruise me more--

princess with me--
i want to be sleepless

embryology:

i told you that sometimes
when i'm depressed 
i curl up on the floor
& imagine myself
dissolving

in bed as my phone vibrated 
me into morning 
i fantasized about
becoming embryonic--

tucked my knees into
my chest & felt the 
membranes form
a sack around me

there was this poster
on the wall in 
our 5th grade class
room when we raised 
chickens 

it had all the stages 
of development the bird would
go through in the egg--

we turned the eggs--
he had heat lamps--

some of them never hatched
& i felt guilty--

i watched my mother 
crack an egg on
the side of a cast iron pan--

how close was i to a chicken?

is there time to go back?

i'm thinking of
all of these embryos like
plastic toys in those
gumball machines--

god puts in a quarter 
& we fall out--

a few feet away they bag
groceries

& my brother asks for
another quarter for
skittles

& we tumble
into our egg shells or 
mothers or fathers

or into the river sticks 
where all 
the empty babies go 
to wait to 
be reborn--

i like hot showers 
that make my skin throb--

shout red--

i like to close my
eyes & put my fingers
against membrane
walls-- throb--

i want to be smaller--
to go backwards
until the water 
run away with me
as simple as a dead leaf--

how many 
chromosomes was i away
from being born with
feathers?

would you have loved me?

skinny legs & yellowish down?

under the heat lamp--

turn me 
turn me

egg tooth in my
forehead--

the river is all our mothers
& our fathers are,
as always,
fishermen--

i wanted to tell you
that sometimes sadness is 
embryology--

& you say that you
want to sleep & sleep
& sleep--

i won't wake you up-- 

let me turn you--

i'll make sure that
you hatch--

& when i was in
fifth grade i saw god 
come in the window &
pick up the soul-less
eggs-- put them in
his pockets like 
quarters for
the gumball machine--

he put his finger to
his lips &  
whispered 

hush

palm sunday 

you tell me that there's
people who make their whole
living off of growing palms
for palm sunday &
orthodox palm sunday

the two days are only
a week apart but apparently 
the orthodox 
follow a different calendar

it would be fun
to try another calendar
for a year or so--

to pretend that we could
have christmas in august 
when everyone needs
a god to arrive--

the sweating nativity--
easter eggs scattered in the
gnat-like snow of january--

our new years born plastic 
& pink 

i looked it up &
you were right
about the men with
great big knives down
in florida-- 

slicing off
stacks of palm leaves
just for that one sunday

hoisting their boys on
their shoulders--

he says 
"we do the best we can
for jesus christ"

& the palms lay like
lay themselves
down like the bones of
priests in catacombs--

like eye lashes--

this article i read
said jesus came into
jerusalem triumphantly

but i like to think of
him as scared--

gripping the hairs 
on a donkey's back--

& then he sees the palms--
the people laying down their
clothes-- the palms
falling like snow
his father had only
told him stories about--

did he know he would someday
be born in the snow?

i imagine it was the palms
that got him ready to
die-- 

i know if i were
going to get crucified that
i'd want some sort of display--

the gathering space
at saint mary's church where
8 years old sister kathleen 
peels off a branch for me--

i took my brother's so that
i could play with two
as jesus himself
opened the big
wooden doors of the church--

monsignor clearing his
throat to read from
the book of matthew as
i fixated on the palms--
attempting to weave 
a cross but mostly just 
twisting the sinews of
the plant--

you tell me that you're not
sure why people are catholic
if they don't like going
to mass 

& i re-assure you 
that i'm not catholic 

even though i can say 
to some degree that
i do actually like
going to mass--

it's not the actual
words-- it's the comfort
of repetition--

the knowledge that 
there will be one day 
every year where 
they hand us palms
at the door--

maybe that my calling--

down in the south
packing palm leaves
to ship across the country--

i take off my shirt--
sit down for
a second as the sun
lilts like a
Eucharist host--

bless myself &
open my mouth 
to receive it--

burning as it drips
down my throat--

i cut another sack of
leaves--

oh, did you hear?

jesus is arriving on
the back of a donkey--

arriving arriving 
always 
arriving

autotomy

they cut down 
the oak trees 
at that house on 9th avenue

they were empty soul-ed
for awhile now--
wincing at a violent
wind & dropping
arms sometimes like
geckos drop their tails
out of fear--

that's called autotomy--
the act of self-amputation

which i think is ironic because
the word looks
like autonomy 

(meaning: agency/control/
deciding when & where you
fall apart)

& in the front lawn
they must have taken
apart the tree in segments--

the torso strewn in
modest blocks &
to me (the passer by)
the oaks appears
to have been startled 
& come apart--

what could frighten 
a tree like that?

she was old so maybe 
it was just a car horn 
or the bark of one
of those terrier dogs
with scruffy hair 
at the nearby park--

i'm somewhat comforted
though by the quietness
of her body there--

no grand finale--

no "timber!!!"

no thud onto the muddy earth--

i think of the great 
big evergreen 
trees that used to 
lean on each other's shoulder
in the front lawn
of the house on noble street--

their stumps now
fading into the grass--

9 years old
i didn't get to see them
being cut down 

but i feel better to imagine
them like that oak tree--

their elbows & femurs
& craniums & tongues
all piled up ready to be
set out with 
the blue trash cans--

if i had a tail
like the skink or a tuatara 
i probably wouldn't
keep it along--

simple things terrify me--
startle me even--

like the ghosts of
trees-- 

monstrous as they
reach tentacles in
the window to frighten me--

rippling earth 
their thighs still
under the ground--

i lose each limb 
involuntarily--

knuckle by knuckle 

the wood of my skin--
bark snapping--

catching hair in electric wires--

the morning doves &
blue birds will scatter 
to tell the cardinals about
what has happened

to the girl who used to
live on noble street--

her ghost calves deep
in the springtime soil--

i feel the toads burrowed
& still at rest--

i felt the urge
to collect the fragments--

picking up all the tails of
lizards that were ditched out
of fear--

it is a defense mechanism 
i suppose

to let go of the 
piece of your body 
they will use 
to devour you whole--

i'll plant 
an evergreen
tree for every limb 
let go

the last white rhino 

did you sit in your wheel chair
by the glass windows like
my grandmother did when
she was dying?

your massive body 
a kind of nation--
a great stone 

like the rock the apostles
found moved from in front
of the cave when 
Jesus climbed into heaven
& left his blood-stained
white shroud 

there was the room
full of puzzles at 
the Lutheran home--

boxes on the shelf--

did he attempt to make
puzzles?

picking up each piece
in his great flat feet
as the 2 women rhinos
scoffed at his clumsiness
that came with age--

45 years old
his own horn getting
heavy to lift--

he would rest his head on
the dirt like home
my grandmother laid back
in the white hospital-like
beds-- curled up like
a cashew--

he knew he was dying
when he began to feel small--

when the earth 
no longer trembled beneath him--

he took to searching for
pianos--

my grandmother sitting
with a quilt to cover 
her lap in the make-shift
living room of 
the old people home--

the piano there was mostly 
vacant but on occasion 
a young man in a blue blazer
came to practice church hymns--

did she still believe in god?

did the rhino?

did he make rosary beads
of the dusty stones of
the reservation?

or did he give up--
telling the women 
that he believed god was
as fickle as the rain--

that god was the cruel
increasing forces of gravity
on his asteroid body--

they began to whisper--
speak in hushed voices
around him--

we'd have to shout
for my grandmother to
hear us-- 

i always wondered if
she heard when we'd talk
about her-- if she was
just pretending to be
near deaf--

we got her hearing aids 
but near the end she
wanted them out--

i can understand 
not wanting to hear 
the hear the cacophony
of the alzheimer's floor--

she sat back--
eyes half closed-- blinking
only every so often--

the rhinoceros
was determined not to kneel--

his eight-ball sized 
eyes-- the solar systems 
in them--

the other white rhinos
his wife & his daughter

saw the humans approaching
in their green jeep

they knew it meant death--

death is seldom a green color--

my grandmother
seemed to die several times
before she went--

before the stone was moved--

was there a hint of green?

maybe an african violet on
a windowsill or a fern
in the hospital lobby?

i wouldn't know because 
the last time i saw her
was in the dusky light
of the puzzle room--

he fell like a spilled
bowl of apples--

bruising on the savannah--

did he worry about 
his blood lines?

his tiny species
made of granite counter tops 
& raucous--

the humans laid hands on
him like the stump
of a great baobab tree--

did you leave behind
a white shroud?

or just a pattern of
foot prints
across the Kenyan earth? 

piano tuner

one late june uncle rich
found an old piano 
at an antique sale & brought
him home-- 

he had said
that he couldn't let
them throw him away--

to waste his dull ivory 
teeth & stoic shoulders--

i imagine the instrument
tipping over like
a warship-- mouth coming
undone in the innards of
the trash truck--

no, we couldn't allow that

rich sat the creature 
at the end of the driveway--

perched vulture-like &
forlorn-- 

rickety bench uneven
in the grey gravel--

rich had said that
we would find a piano tuner--

that once we got
one that the beast
would be good to come
inside-- 

there it would like grinning
& letting us walk 
on tongue & teeth--

that night i stood
from the kitchen to observe
the piano--

from my distance it
seemed to be kneeling--

tell me-- do instruments
pray for their bones
like we do?

i wanted to go out 
there & sit on
the wobbly bench--

i wouldn't play i would
just rest my fingers there
to keep the colossus warm--

his one-eyed face
blinking in moon glow 

i'd whisper:
tell me what songs 
they left in you?

did he laugh behind
the altar of that church 
on Koffee Lane?

did he wait for Christmas?

did he try to 
catch bouquets at
weddings?

did the piano believe
in love or was he so focused
on song that love
became a part of
his body?

i wonder what
it feels like to grow
out of tune--

it's a process i would think

i'm standing in my vocal teacher's
living room-- soft beige carpet--
afternoon crawling on
all fours through the window

the notes start to kneel--
crossing themselves &
martyring in the chimney--

foot pedal of my tongue--

i wanted to send the
piano tuner into
my throat & beg him 
to go through me string by string--

crouched barefoot
in the cold driveway--

oh we were so much 
alike--

him & i

i would sleep
there-- resting up against
his shrugging wooden
shoulders--

the piano waited
for the tuner to come--

on the fourth of
july after a few Guinness 
uncle rich played--

notes like dead birds
laying belly up 
beneath the evergreen tree

the next night it rained
& i wanted to bring
him inside but the water
came to fast &
his body was too heavy--

there i stood
drenched & standing in front
of the piano

i wish i would 
have made music-- 

taught him to open
his mouth & catch rain--

there we'd sleep on
each other's discordant 
tongues--

oh piano tuner
piano tuner 

are you still
on your way? 
  

snow in march

i'm worried it will
snow so much that there will
be nothing left of the sky
when it's done--

what would hang above us?

i'm laying on the bottom
of your wooden bunk bed
in the dark

this is another poem
about snow

when i was younger
& watching a movie
with my mom told me
that snow always 
symbolizes death--

whose death am i 
making foot prints in?

whose ceiling's 
painted-clouds
have come alive & decided
to be a blizzard?

my bedroom at my parent's
house is decorated
like a rain forest--

what about snow in
the rain forest?

are we that far gone?

flakes melting
on the backs of leopards--
tree frogs frozen on
their branches like
iridescent ice cubes--

we used to play in
the snow for hours 
Billy & i--

that was back when 
we had snow pants--

mine were green &
his were blue--

we'd come inside
& set our wet gloves
on the radiator
while sitting at the 
kitchen table--

eating marshmallows
instead of dipping them in our
hot coco--

what death did the snow
mean back then?

was it our own--

making snowmen 
& igloo & grave stones--

when everything melts
in the winter
does death take on
new bodies?

maybe the purple 
crocuses--

i've always found them too
good to be true--

that or the daffodils
with their flippant 
open mouths--

& here is
all this sky in the backyard--

i keep thinking
that maybe good will
have to pull a bed sheet
over the heavens--

bunchy edges wrinkling
at the corners
of the horizon--

i go out into
the snow & i think
about how much i miss you

& how i hope whatever
death is coming down so
heavy doesn't have to
do with us--

i want to park 
my car on your side street
& look up at the apartment 
windows trying to
guess which one is yours--

standing knee-deep 

i grab snow with 
my glove-less hands 

in an attempt
to piece back
together a corner of
the atmosphere--

it's good packing snow
at the very least--

not the powdery snow
that comes when the 
earth is in a more
dire state of mourning--

if nothing else we'll have
this patch when the sky
finally stops ridding
itself of a body--

this little wisp of heaven--

will you lay under it
with me?

this is my bottom bunk 
of the rain forest--

let's feel small
& pick daffodils 

underline 

when i read
i keep a pen in my
hand for underlining

a long time ago this
used to be for school
or for taking notes 
but recently i underline
mostly out of compulsion--

the comfort of laying
pavement beneath a line
of words--

this is where i have walked--

& in my home town
there are railroad tracks 
that fall like
jacob's ladders 
between the creek & 
the corn fields--

i find myself balancing
on them-- telling you 
to take a picture of me--

underlining myself
with metal rail--

with the wild hope 
at the earth will
shake & a train will 
approach-- 
monstrous & mammoth--

if i lay down 
in the grass field by
my house will you 
find me with your 
black ball point pen?

veins filling with 
emphasis--

i don't think i
could read without underlining--

i have tried a few times
but i get frantic--

lost-- the ground
under me becoming
the blank face of god--

featureless--
his eyes two canvases
leaning against the walls 
of my uncle's room--

his nose a page turn--

i'm scared of staring
directly at him--

when god reads the bible
does he do so with a pen in
hand?

does he underline
his favorite moments?

the buring bush--
the wedding a cannon--
all of exodus--

maybe when he's done
he uses the flyleaf
for more stories--

underlining unwritten
parables-- 

i feel myself there
lines growing under my
bare feet--

i check the
the soles of my feet
& they're blue 
from his ink--

i try washing them
off in the sink but 
it only gets on my hands--

contagious with 
line i have accepted 
that god & i are a like
in this way--

that we both trace our
memories--

underlining our bodies
electric & lightning veined--

when i speak alone in my room--
sometimes i poise 
pen ready as i let words
leave my mouth--

underscoring them as they exit--
as if i could hold them down-- 

ankles made of lead--

i keep them in the top
drawer of my desk-- 

laugh at their 
vocabularic desires 
to find wings strong

enough to leave--

does his pen hurt when
it scores you?

metal tip digging 
a trench--

calling battlefield--

god is there 

leaning back 
on a steam engine cloud--

filling you with ink--
filling me with ink--
filling us with ink

pen in his teeth--

i underline the whole
poem again-- 

crow daring feet
i stand 
a little too comfortably 
balanced on 
the telephone wires

as they leave town

my doctor describes a speculum  

only this part goes 
inside you-- 

there was this old 
abandoned house on 9th avenue
that they knocked down--

weeds up the walls
like cellulite--

i'm standing in the debris
wishing i would have gone
inside before they 
ripped her walls from
her body

it's not very large 
at all--

here do you want 
to hold it?

bricks & bricks & bricks
baby teeth in 
the dirt

the ghost house 
was on the other
side of saucony creek--

cold stone floor--
we wrote our names 
on the walls in sharpie pens--

minor flooding

handful of hair

knotting shoe laces--

he didn't take off
his shoes--

there was no doors left--
just open archways

you could stare through
the whole structure--

roof trust-falling inside
the structure--

i caught shingles
like feathers or snow flakes--

outside rotting 
tree torsos waited
for us to use them 
as mattresses

what do you call
your parts?

i call it a vagina i guess

& i've always wanted
to stand in the public pool
when they drain it in October--

i don't have any reason
in particular other
than i would feel at
peace in the emptiness--

walls rising--
the deep end a dry throat--

a cavern-- 
would it hold rain?
bats?
fish?

i'd curl up 
& feel safe-- 

feel like
no one could possibly 
know where i was

we don't have to do it 
today-- we can pick up
next time
do you want to take
it with you?

i want to rebuild
that house from 
9th avenue-- weeds & all

i miss it--

with it's cats staring
from beneath 
the wooden porch--

with it's jagged cracked
window--

cut yourself as you
slip inside--

who has the door knobs?

the mailbox?

it only takes 
a few minutes &
then we're done 

i hold the plastic device 
like a jaw bone--
like a window--

this time i'll
build door