March came & tadpoles laid eggs in your blood
pond muck & algae--green nets in your blood

your father overflows from a photo--
depression-- gaping gill-less in his blood 

blue-vein filter throb: you cleaned the fish tank
tetras drowning from the salt in your blood

when he feeds you, bite off his thick fingers 
they will say "love of figs" was in your blood 

hula-hoop-haloed-- you fracture rainbow
pastel chalk in the driveway: your dry blood 

syringe siphoned your magenta girl blood
his coast-hanger fingernails in your blood

hibachi 

theater of my body on blue fire--

hot oiled & slick--

meet me on the gas-powered griddle--
feet charring-- the wavering 
rush of flame--

we were tongue voyagers--

teeth tearing tire &
asphalt--

when i was ten we discovered
a hibachi grill--

mesmerized by the thrill of heat--

clang of spatula &

ringing of knives-- slicing 
yolk into rice--

onion breathing fire--

as i got older i opened
my mouth like that-- alone
on the stage of my
bedroom floor--

mouth burning the curtains--
smoke to the ceiling--

this was so common for
me that my father had taken out
the fire alarms-- 

learned to crouch on
all fours & wait for
the smoke to pass--

everything was hibachi--
& i grew thinner in 
the wake of salt--

spinning of the egg--
my body a compass of
inevitable rupture-- 

& you watched me-- hungry-- 

chicken & shrimp snapping
at my ankles--

the floor cooking
me evenly

but in spectacle--

growing up was a 
hot reverberation--

a series of dinner 
with napkins in our laps--

take a handful of chopsticks 
home & use them as fangs--

& i took my mother's
knives & practiced 
on the grill--

the sun to be cracked
for the last time--

bouncing on the 
end of the spatula &

the car is in the driveway 
waiting to drive us 
to thanksgiving
dinner but i'm not ready--

i'm eating communion 
wafers dipped in oil--

chewing stalks of
celery while the home
fills with the smell 
of fried rice & teriyaki--

you claw at my door
with forks--

digging into the wood--

my brother with 
the broken glass 
of water-- standing in
the middle of the kitchen floor--

shards surrounding him--

he won't move--

we left the oven on--

was it you filling my mouth 
with green tea ice cream--

fat spoonfuls spat &
sizzling on the floor  

door off it's hinge--

you find me on my
knees--

becoming a volcano--

eggs suicide smashed 
all around me 

a cardinal smacks against
the window--

& down stairs glass
slices into his heel--

the blood comes from
the ceiling--

the origin of
the knives is not important 

but they ring themselves like bells--

the door cuts us--

& i'm safe for now

there's no more silverware

fireplace & fossil 

breath left
us in the form of 
a storm cloud--

rain coming down in acid 
& corrosion--

the roof melting--
puddles in the kitchen

is this our blood
or merely summer's final
act of precipitation?

we learned
death is a kind of weather

you & i with our

bodies dropped like
allosaurus--

our teeth falling out 
like the points of 
a crown--

i want to be fossilized--

to be an impression or
maybe just a 

stone-recollection--

i want the next humans 
who live in our house
to use the fireplace--

to collect wood 
from the christmas trees
in the yard

burn their arms for smoke--

chimney choking on 
thunder--

will they come up with
names for us?

arrange our bones wrong
& see dragons

looming over us 
like wooden spoons--

arms crossed--

drinking steam from mugs--

their children scurry in
the basement--

they discover your old
boxes of green plastic army men

& only the eyes of my
beanie babies--

i know the fossils 
won't let us keep 
our eyes so in the night

when they sleep we can 
sneak away--

use the black stuffed-animal
pupils as our own--

& we will wonder 
how it was that we were
seeing with out them--

our sockets aching 
for color--

we turn to the fire
flickering still--

greys & whites & black shadows

making prehistory of
dining room furniture--

i ask you if you remember
when our father hung
a clock above the fireplace
& never bothered to change 
it's batteries--

it's face stagnant with
the lie of silent time--

we laugh as we imagine
the clock licked by 
flames--

when the family comes
back we will
lay back down--

lay down like good
fossils should 

but for now in the night
we can be  cretaceous--

break off pieces of
our vertabrae to watch the fire
bare her teeth--

hungry as us--

we take turns re-eating
our own refracted bones--

taste of sharp chalk or
pastels--

we should have used 
the fireplace long ago

before the earth pressed
us like rose petals
into the speckled kitchen
floor--

we hide our eyes beneath 
the fridge--

playground

i feel you in my jungle gyms--

ache of metal marrow--

gripping to the rungs of my ribs--
the monkey bars 
& the skeleton slide

the staircases to kiss under--

breath of mulch & dew--

you the boy with the tree root legs
& me with the sandbox grit
between my fingers--

tic-tac-toe on across my chest--

when i was little my arms weren't strong enough 
for me to swing from bar to bar so my father would
hoist me up--

holding my waist while i grasped 
at femurs-- 

whose bones were those?

did you father hold you up--
waiting for your back to burst open
with swam feathered wing--

my body is only a sidewalk 
away-- 

two blocks & turn left 

they tore down

the anatomy i grew up in
& now only the trees remember
what those clavicles were like 

we all wanted to hang upside down--

the big-kid trick--

hair turning waterfall--

blood beating in temples--

we succeeded in spinning the earth

& in first grade 
when we mulch-searched for 
pterodactyl fossils 

someone of us gazing up
at the big kids--

our siblings

precarious & pendulous--

the threat of their plummet
made us pray--

pleading for their safe 
return to earth 

& for our arms to someday
be strong enough
for us to alter gravity--

i stood-- trying to pull
myself up alone & wishing
my father was there to lift
me by my waist--

we buried the carcasses 
of worms

hid stones with 
too much magic to keep 
in pockets--

now i feel them throb--

their enchantment lodged  
under skin--

the children playing vertebrae 
like black piano keys--

minor scale--

taking off their knees in me--

we wanted the slide to 
open up somewhere new--

a destination--

so we climbed up &
laid on our backs as we
slide-- 

liquefy the clouds &
make-blue the ceiling--

as if we could emerge 
on the surface of mars--

red dirt & dinosaur ghosts--

is that you then?

who walked three blocks 

broke sidewalks like bread 
& popped the heads off
dandelions along the way

& found me with my 

rust & sore flesh--

meet me under the slide
where i buried my mouth--

each tooth now fossilized
& prehistoric

i wish i could tell him
that i trust him--
(the spider on the ceiling
of my room)

i don't really know
what i mean by "trust" just
that i feel like he's reliable--

a friend--

his body a handful of apostrophes--

light & timid as eye lashes--

blinking him into existence--

he owns nothing (i assume)

no book shelves or pocket watches--
no address for me to mail him a letter--

should i wave?

(i don't want to startle him)

does he read poems over
my shoulder maybe wishing i would 
turn back the page so he could see again
that line about how

we were in love like august--

does he read the love
as human or does he think
of his mother--

her needle-leg silhouette
written in the window frame--

he built his web in the far corner
above my desk--

a gentle chandelier--

crystals dangling from his eyes-- 

i wonder if he pays attention
to my routines--

maybe he finds comfort in 
my compulsions--

hum of the microwave at 11:30pm
the soft yellow light of the machine--

he imagines it's sun in a box--
turning-- 

encapsulated dawn--

he wakes to the crinkle 
of granola wrapper

as i sit wiping crumbs 
from my mouth 

right before i tie my green 
shoe laces
to run 4 miles-- away from
the threat of our bodies--

does he wait for me to return
or does he expect it?

does he trust me like i trust him?

does he notice me
glancing up?

i sometimes think he might fall--
descend on a strand of silky web

does he wonder what my skin feels like?

maybe laying awake
cradled in white threads-- watching
me breath as i sleep--

considering crawling down my throat--

becoming flesh & muscles--

does he wish the love
poem was about him

& as he sways-- light 
& feather boned?

does he consider leaving?

maybe thinking to himself
that i would even notice--

knitting in the dim glow
of lamps from the parking
lot out back--

dreaming of augusts 
& human love 

forecast 

i should have checked 
the weather channel

my 7-day heart written 
by the poets 

with their forecasts &
their warm fronts

i wouldn't have guessed  
myself to be 68 degrees &
sunny--

drift of old clouds
who never rained--

what kind of winter am i
going to be next year?

soft meandering of jazz
whispers through my windows

to remind me that 
the meteorologists 
are doing their work

my body a site of 
investigation--

they map me--

precipitation-green across
my limbs-- 

i'm humid & full of storm--

the hurricane they haven't named--

my skin a surface to be read

i'm thinking of the times
i believed in rain dances--
standing in the gravel
driveway with my hands
lifted to a grey sky--

or the times i kneeled
& prayed for my body to
snow & cancel the world out
for a bit--

i wished i  had a snow
machine like the ones 
at bear creek-- one i could
point & wrap us all in quiet--

i forget about the jazz sometimes
until a trumpet laughs her
way back into my ears

& i recall that somewhere the 
weather channel is observing me--

taking measurements--

their wind vanes roasting 
on the heads of tall buildings--

gauging my distant breathing--

oh tell me-- next year 
how hot will i be on
the first of september? 

will my wind speed resist
the turn of the planet?

will you be there with me?

with your soul echoing a 60% chance
of cloudburst 
your sky partly sunny--

burning away it's own skirts
with a face full of summer--

you are so unpredictable--

you must give the 
weathermen quite
the time--

i imagine we're all at least
a little unforeseen--

in seven days i will
be 48 degrees with 
the haze of graphite heaven
murky over my head--

a kind of halo--

whose god is it writing my body
into temperature?

tell me how hot you
used to be when you
let august run wild with
your skin 

when january was an ending--

when a scarf tethered you
down to earth so
as to not be carried
away on a gust of childish blizzard

turn on the weather
channel-- 

you'll see me there--

asleep in a mist of 
saxophone-mouthed kisses 
& fall of piano keys

i'll listen for you--

your eyes peering down
through the cloud cover 

at me in my forecasted body--

what kind of weather do
you see in me anyway?

don't tell me--

i want to be surprised--

but for you i like
to think you will be
one of those 70 degree days--

the ones where you feel like
you should have no where
to be--

where you feel like
one more step 

& you'll evaporate--

float grey & tired 
above

don't resist the insects

curious with legs-- 

you were a terrain to be explored--

the mountains of your thighs--
thick & bristling with sweat--

their mouths sometimes the darkened
half of the moon--

an absent smile--

bodies be-jeweled in the glint
of a lazy sun--

the soil after
the last ponderous snow 
was soft enough
for me to plant myself--

i wanted the creek to stop
& i remembered you telling me
that you are tired

& that you want to take off
the next few years just to 
practice existing

i should have let them take me

the insects--

drone hovering-- 

emerging from beneath the rocks 
where i had planned to escape 
with myself--

how dare they steal
all the best hiding places--

how many stones will
you lift before you let them 
take you?

do you feel your skeleton 
rising to the surface of your skin?

i'm scared it will hurt--

exo-skeletal-- white white ribs 

another memory of
the crescent moon--

i sat by the creek & thought
about what life is like
as a lichen--

to have others not
take notice that you're a live--

to be mistaken for stone
& to cultivate your own
body as the great secret--

maybe the bugs legs
pass over you--

the beetle-- the necklace
of ants-- the ticks with 
their mouths tasting air--

all mistaking my ruffled 
lace-green body--

i touch one--

feel it laugh like a skirt--

i put it on--

lay silent while your blood
turns creek-water clear 

& flows beside me--

this is how close we will
get, lover--

a few feet from each other

avoiding the insects 
& their obsidian bodies--

the movement of stones
is unsettling--

what have you been resisting 
lately?

the seasons turn?

the sinking into the wet earth?

i wish i were brave
like you--

standing at the edge of 
water as the insects
see you-- gaping open--

eager to colonize--

if i were an insect i 
i would be bold
enough to walk up 
you back--

starting at the base--

hairs standing up--

caress of lace--

crescent moon 
bending our knees--

oh but you would know
it was me--

was there a forest for you?

leaving dirt smudges on 
your ankles & neck like a lover's mark--

mouth making tree rings in you--

your roots malignant & thick--
bursting from in between bone--

did you yank stones from the earth?

soil beneath fingernails--

was that you who brought dusk too early
in march when we were long ready for
summer?

oh grandmother are your stockings
made of moss now?

& did you know how much
the earth yearned for alone
time with you--

to strip you of shoes & 
drape your socks over the fallen log--

god comes into focus like evening--

tangerine & peach-fleshed--

will you come home too late?

will Mother worry?
her apron tied to the front door--
her body-- a moth hungry for a month 
to bump into--

for now we have the congregation--

the trees to remember each other by
while the green lilts-- fearful 
of still-melting snow--

wipe your hands on my jeans--

i can hide your un-clean in me--

your un-tethered pagan tendencies--

who can help but worship a forest
unveiling herself to you

oh alone--

who were you alone?

was there a rosary to pull from the reeds--

echo of rifles & deer hoof--
the winter is not as long as they said
it would be--

the war cabins of valley forge
sink into the ground--

sometimes i imagine that your bones
are smuggled back to
me in the trees--

at i walk across this creek
on your fallen clavicle--

if they ask me if i saw you
here i will say nothing--

this is between us--

i'll hold your secrets
under the river rocks where
they will be unwritten--

clear as blood--

i know 
i'm making you up--

to tell you like a story--

shake the trees if 
you had a forest--

wipe your hands on me--

mammoth 

we were the last 
of the woolly mammoths

tusks stolen from dead gods--
fur thick with the heat 
of pre-history--

i want to sleep with you--

heavy & frozen--

foot steps shaking 
earth--

& centuries later 
the ground will shake 

with what was the meandering
of my body--

i want to make a carcass
to be found--

when our children resurrect 
themselves in cave paintings
i will know it is time 
to stop roaming--

the continent 
is as small as the face of
a dime--

we know time &
we know where this is going--

where the soil will yield 
towers & man will
fuck the raw earth--

spear & bare foot--

stolen for art--
hands on cave walls--

whose history are we then?

eaten in the fascination
of soil soft skin--

it was i who felt 
the pyramids grow-- felt their
stones hoisted in the hot desert--

felt the pharaohs gold--

the embalming fluid
emptied into the sand--

we are not so different

we white sand & red snow--

in my joints i felt the face of
the sphinx surface in
my wide soul--

i do not ask 

where the others are--

skeletons pounding the 
permafrost like drums--

i want to ask what will 
become of these skulls--

these vessels of snow centuries--

be gentle with us--

weight is not an indication
of anger--

we were quiet here--

felt your birth & gathered
in between cliffs to whisper
our premonitions--

our death had always been
known-- loved--

a kind of weather
beyond the boundaries
of dry & arid--

i dreamed myself 
as a gold king--

in the entrance of the cave
when the ice came
to sculpt me--

& in my head i could
hear your songs--

the ones you used tp
build fortresses

& in my vertabrae
i felt you finding me again--

a specimen of fear--

be gentle be gentle
we knew you 

with your naked pink bodies--

crawling on all
fours from the divide
between the tigress in euphrates

be gentle--

you children with fingers--

oh if you could
wear my corpse what kinds

of stories we
could tell

you & me on the floor
of the cave--

tusks stolen from 
the dead gods--

tell me human

what pyramids are you building?
what bodies 

will you leave for the caves?

all your ghosts are alive in the snow 
dead sparrow mother foot prints pressed in snow 

neon orange sled down the soccer field hill 
red bare skin: you lost your boot in the snow 

they catch on your lashes-- blink bright midnight--
you say they taste like a mouth made of snow 

burial was soft-- as with all snowmen 
from living room watching him sink in snow

that was when we stopped loving each other
when laying with you was an angel of snow

do you remember tulips in your cheeks?
in april it wasn't supposed to snow

too heavy for rooftops-- blend into sky 
your pastel painter thumb--dipping in snow 

our father's sled with the metal runners
garage rusted & eaten by the snow 

i know you're out there waltzing in the snow
with the ghost of a flurry girl of snow