our legos biodegrade in the attic black doll-eyes sprouting wild the attic dad plugs in more red distortion pedals we hear his chords vexing in the attic freddy's purple heart degeneration-- he weeps & locks the door to the attic ragged plastic hair & Velcro dresses-- he made swallow him in the attic i'll be floor-board spoken from the attic a jar of foot steps across the attic
growing when we first moved in to the house on noble street the back yard was only dirt no christmas tree planted no magenta alien flowers popping up in mid-may just wind coughing dust bronchitis-lunged-- we had chain-link fence mouths-- billy & i took buckets to make mud-- ankle deep in earth-- i painted my face like a warrior & billy washed his hands with the garden hose this was before uncle rich bought the pile of red stones that would wait next to the garage perfect for a base when we played tag we imagined it into a mountain-- standing higher than the smokeless chimney-- like all father's mine wanted a lawn to mow-- i had thought for some reason that grass seeds would be round little circles like the mustard seeds mom ground to fill jars in the cupboard-- how will we liken the kingdom of god? it is like a grain of mustard seed-- growing into evergreen tree-- into chimneys & wild onions-- dad bought grass seed by the bag & i sat on the porch while i watched him plant the whole yard-- aching to leap in sprinklers as they caressed the unborn heads of the grass-- when dad wasn't home sometimes i took off my shoes & ran once or twice through the sprinkler-- i never told dad but maybe he knew it seemed to take forever to grow-- frustrated dad would pace in the sun room staring out the back window at the sprinkler choreography & the mucky lawn-- at night in bed i thought of the grass seeds-- thin & white-- drinking with their whole body-- gulp by gulp how long could they wait? i felt my hair growing longer-- like i was floating underwater at the pool-- inhaling sharply to check i was still on land-- i wake up like that sometimes still-- small & seed-like glass of water by the foot of my bed eventually the grass came not slowly all at once-- (that's not really how it happened but the story is better that way) all at once like a ballet falling open-- ribbons & point shoes-- there was orchestra music & the sun came up & every hair of grass stood on end-- goose bump pebbled-- standing in the grass i grow taller now-- grow knees & a heart the size of a mustard seed waiting for the wind to scatter it-- waiting for god to scatter it-- mouth kissing garage doors-- making mud-- oh what kind of grass grows in the backyards of gay men? ones that still sleep like this-- like a fleck of grass desperately drinking water-- my father mows the lawn even though it's made of mud i'm standing up & jumping through the sprinkler under the stern gaze of the moon he doesn't notice
of course i knew we would be out-numbered this is back when i wrote down phone numbers when there was a stroller that could hold me, we counted the houses by odd-numbers the ants single file across the baseboard chewing ankles & growing in numbers boys play with boys; girls play with girls, and you? you will lean against brick walls out-numbered befriend the caterpillars & the gnats-- abuse the colors of paint by numbers the book will have most pages mis-numbered your house's street will run out of numbers
butternut squash i'm thinking about the butternut squash soup my mom would make after our last trip to the farm for the season she'd slice the squash in half knife to my forehead-- split down the spine the dictionary torn in two-- i'm holding my flat pumpkin-like seeds & stringy sinews in my hands-- laid out on a cookie sheet-- olive oil & a handful of sea salt from the little jar by the coffee machine these were giant squash-- giraffe necked contortionists-- i told you that someday i would come over & make you soup did i tell you about the squash or was i just thinking about them? i imagined you sitting at your kitchen table while i leaned on a knife-- forcing it through my torso-- the squash aching as it split-- how did my mother cut them so evenly? do you like soup in march? it's still cold enough to me-- the oven behind my teeth-- on my back gazing up at a red hot coiled sky-- are you coming in with me? the squash roasted at 450 & made the house smell like winter should-- i know other recipes-- what do you want me to taste like? & when the halves were done roasting she would pull them out of the oven with the torn & scraggly green hot pads-- pan clattering on the counter steam spilling from my sliced chest-- ribs like pumpkin seeds-- salt stinging in each gash-- all it takes is a little salt-- with the big metal spoon she'd scoop the squash hollow-- emptying the skin of all it's soft insides dropping them into the soup pot to be cooked down-- dull orange earthy-- this is how soft you've made my body-- was it from sitting on the radiator or from all the times you kissed my clothing onto the hard wood floor let me do it myself with the big metal spoon-- i'll start at my neck-- vertebrae & tangled blood-- down to my navel-- does your house smell like winter? put the soup pot on the stove-- loving you emptied me easily-- flesh soft & buttery-- there are not always knives needed to feel hollow-- again & again one spoonful-- your tongue burned on my teeth-- steam pouring into my face while my mother gets out the ladle all we were fit into a bowl handful of salt-- eat-- it's getting cold
blood i watched the needle go in this time thin plastic tube my blood is a really beautiful color-- like clay or flushed cheeks or velvet cupcake-- not like a rose because roses are over-used there's something martian about it-- like i could pull out the syringe & pour onto the linoleum floor to make a planet-- i will need a space suite would my blood look different out of orbit? lunar even-- glowing white-- saint catherine's milk veins as they cut off her head-- i called you on the way home from the doctor's because i know you hate having you blood taken too you have thin veins & the nurse moves the needle in your forearm like a search light-- are your veins like those little gravel roads between the corn fields behind our house? the ones that shake the blue jeep like a can of pennies-- i wanted to tell you why they were taking my blood-- that i take testosterone now in little vials that my voice is a leaving me & i hope you still recognize it when i call 3 years down the road-- instead i listen to you tell me about your blood-- what color is yours when i fills little plastic vials? i've always seen you as an deep purple man-- maybe sapphire like the creek water when the sun hits it just right-- is there silt & loam? when they're done i always ask "is that it?" as the nurse in teal scrubs collects the vials on the counter-- i wanted to pick them up i want to slip the tubes in my backpack i bet they were warm-- i bet they were oceans-- there was a wave in there-- the kind that knocks you down & fills your mouth with salt-- i would have found somewhere to pour them out maybe even just the bathroom sink-- i wouldn't tell you this but i liked the way the needle felt this time-- for you i'll lie & say that i hated it just like you with your thin veins-- are they large enough for us to swim? drenched in clay-- martian maroon bodies-- before i called you i sat in my car-- running my fingers gently back & forth across my forearm where the needle had been-- next time they take your blood-- steal the vials-- let yourself swim-- oh, what of mars is still in us?
offspring what if i was someone else's daughter? if i walked out into the scraggly grass of the backyard the house on franklin street two-year-old hands ripping out dandelions & daffodils-- if barefoot & kidney bean toes-- laughing at the buzz of carpenter bees as they ate the garage-- they carry me away-- biting the back of my t-shirt to bring me home to the hive-- if you peered out the kitchen window to check on me & i was gone-- how long would you have searched for me? i don't ask out of malice-- i just want to know how long it takes to become something else's child-- maybe it would be the herons-- they'd watch me from the creek-- dipping bills in water-- waiting for the right moment to put me on their backs & dash off-- would they teach me how to have long legs? would i acquire a taste for river fish or would i chew pond scum in protest? maybe the wolves-- oh yes maybe the wolves-- like those little girls they found Bengal India are we feral girls? i think i would have taken to the wolves-- the ones that lingered near the rail road tracks-- escaped from the surrounding mountains all fours-- i might have gone willingly-- teeth growing into thorns-- oh mother & father forgive me i cannot help the wild onions in me-- spine contorted-- what kind of poetry would that leave me? & when the leaves turned in autumn & you gave up searching for me would you hear the wolves howling & think that maybe i had been eaten-- or maybe it was the sigh of a passing train-- i like to think i'd be the same boy carpenter bee born heron son-- beaks & stringers-- what off spring will they make of my body-- it's not too late you know? i'm not little anymore but there's always going to be the mountains to crawl back to-- always the train tracks that remind us that our own bones resemble step ladders-- if i disappear don't look for me-- leave my room empty to fill with bees & lady bugs & when the moon is full & my tall legs dip in the creek you might hear me-- the mountain off spring the boy-girl of reeds & grass
suffragettes will you put jonquils in my hair? let's planting tulip bulbs in the asphalt-- we'd make the streets rising like bread on the counter you make me feel like a suffragette-- like the woman-sun as she cuts her hair into a bob & drops locks into the lavender rivers of our blood we would make terrifying girls-- what could we do with the vote? steal it-- ballots in our teeth sprinting away into the night clutching the hems of our long-sleeved dresses-- will you pluck off my buttons like blackberries? take scissors to my sleeves-- let's make sashes & banners that say We will have what we want-- undress for me in the quiet space at the neck of the crocus-- this is where we will be happy & alone no i'm not a girl at least not anymore but if i were alive in the 1920s i would have been-- maybe i would have even liked it-- when i was a little girl i rubbed dirt into my knees-- i would pull weeds from the cracks in the sidewalk & treat them like sisters-- setting them in glasses of water on the kitchen table-- cut my hair into a bob-- we'll put on our beautiful sunday hats-- rims keep the church bells from clattering out of the sky-- does heaven believe in jonquils? is the sun yellow for us then? i want to be suffragettes because i feel like it would be wild-- it's not that i think it would be easy-- just that it seems straight forward-- to believe that my voice is lodged in a vote-- waiting to be spat into the smiling man's face-- his cheeks bleeding roses-- we would meet up after the great march on a street corner-- you'd light my cigarette & we would whisper revolutions small enough to sleep in flower beds-- you would tell me that i remind you of a crocus-- the first ones in the spring-- the ones that come up without warning in the front yard of the church on Chestnut street i'd kiss you & you'd make me promise never to tell-- i'll spend my first vote on you-- to have us made into locks of the sun's hair-- feather-falling in the street--
graffiti & the garden of eden does god set timers on his iphone? one to bring the sun up & one to remind the moon to feel ashamed of her white naked body-- does he have one for how long the earth is supposed to last or is he winging it? would he notice if we went back to the garden-- in canvas shoes & shaved heads-- i imagine him sitting on the brown recliner as he watches the messiah doing dishes by dull kitchen light-- mary with her feet up on the blue ottoman-- the garden of eden perching silent in the backyard-- tall sunflower & ivy-- would you like to come with me? no-- i don't want to be the first woman or the first man i've just always wanted to make mischief against paradise-- when my mother first told me about adam & eve & all that sin she was shocked about how fervently i defended the snake-- i crouched by rivers-- flicking my tongue in the hopes of summoning him-- apples in his mouth-- twisting stems-- the ground rotting with fallen pears-- overgrown fence-- let's be naked in the tall grass-- cans of spray paint clinking in my backpack & i'm thinking about the railroad bridge that hangs over I-76 on the way into Philadelphia the language of fat pink & white letters-- the graffiti artist dangling in the night to write their other names-- does he float? does he hang upside down on borrowed spider threads? i'm thinking of the steel beam that says "i was innocent once" that one always makes me want to stop me car in the middle of the high way so that i can try to reply-- i want to find that tree-- the one we all sinned for-- i want to write on the trunk-- just in black-- nothing intricate-- something gritty about knowledge is it vandalism if it was once our body too? paint the vines red with me-- i'll get naked & we can be brick walls-- necks of buildings-- fat thighs of a freight train-- i want you to write on me with anonymity-- eat apples off the ground--
choir practice you used to sing in saint mary's choir this was vocation-- opening your voice like a pocket watch-- like a tulip bulb-- it was march & i was fifth grade fat as a knotted tree trunk-- & the back seat of your blue jostled as we drove up past the air port dinner-- at night you would sit in the sun room tape recorder praying-- the choir director had recorded herself because you didn't read music-- mass happening upstairs as i sat in the dim living room-- i made communion of oreo cookies & apple cider & sometimes a metal bowl of grapes-- your foot tapping made the pulse of our house-- your guitar ached as it leaned on the book shelf-- i think i believed in god back then & maybe so did you-- back when billy & i sat in the gathering area after school while you went to choir practice-- we watched you through the glass windows into the church-- dusky golden glow of light behind the altar-- the rest of the church dull & shadow heavy-- monsters belly-crawling beneath pews-- sometimes we went outside & sat near the garden-- the one you had planted the year before with lambs ear & daffodils & the pinkish butterfly bush humming mouth full of bumble bees-- the grass turned indigo as we swallowed the sun like a eucharist host-- knees stained green we could hear every one of your ghost hymns as they emptied from stained glass windows-- i imagine the skull of god is something like those windows-- kaleidoscope & cavernous-- reverberating vaguely of your voice oh father forgive me-- i pinched the butterflies by the wings to hold them still-- took handfuls of mulch to feel the dirt beneath my finger nails-- but always paused when you sang the canticle of the turning it has always been my favorite song from church-- it's the only one i can sing now from memory
grapefruit you said your mother made you eat grapefruit for breakfast purple-pink flesh-- torn out with the spoon dip in sugar when no one was looking-- juice down your arms-- this is our first lesson in how a body should be bitter-- should sting as it comes into being-- when i was little sometimes i would swipe lemons from the fridge-- cut them in half & dip them in the sugar bowl-- like crystals off your puckering body-- & my skull was a grapefruit to be sliced in half-- tart & resentful on your tongue-- i miss the breakfast bar in the living room-- the swivel chairs-- the dead light bulbs-- i miss you in spoonfuls lately-- leaf of basil forkful of fresh salsa-- you're chopped-- onions & tomatoes-- fierce cilantro what is to be done with the over protective skin of grapefruit? worn as an overcoat when i leave mine in the cubby at elementary school-- i learned early from you that womanhood is so much like grapefruit-- like grandmothers in the sink-- cutting hair-- round heads-- round cirtus swallowed whole-- lemons swallowed whole-- the chairs swallowed whole the violets on the sink swallowed whole biting corridors of a body-- you said your mother liked grapefruit-- sometimes eating it pre-cut in fruit cups-- & on her windowsill she had an antique brass scale with fake grapes & pears to balance the sides-- each time i would walk over while no one was looking to squeeze the plastic orbs-- as if one time i would arrive & find them plump & full of juice-- i don't like grapefruit what's left of my girlhood in laid out on scales-- is maybe in your throat-- is maybe bitter & bruised pink-- i sometimes sleep in the rinds-- comforted by the smell of metal knives & dead light bulbs-- mother, let's eat something sweet the lemon has two halves-- climb in the sugar bowl with me let's be women
Robin Gow 