last will & testament 

this is a elegy
but only sort of

a bird flew into
our chimney yesterday

he made the sound
of flourishing dictionary pages
or a shoe being swallowed

as he descended into 
the mouth of brick & dust

we haven't used the fireplace
in decades &
it's boarded up so 
there's no way to open
it from the living room--

it's a crypt--
walls of a tomb written
in bird feather--

i want to know what
could have drawn him in

a dare from the blue jays?

is it the same way
i feel about jumping into wells?

am i a coin teeth flashing
in well water?

moon peering in
like a mother over
the wall of a crib--

the bird got caught around
twilight & waited as 
the tunnel filled with 
more & more darkness
as if night was being
shoveled on top of him
buried alive in shadow

he opened his mouth
to shout

voice contorted--

he lay in the neck of
a clarinet

remembering the songs 
they all song in february 
when it was so untimely warm--

did we meet maybe
when i sat by the creek &
swatted at gnats?

him only a few meters away-- 

delicate feet
over the soft warm earth

he was made for april nights

this is the confirmation 
that the call of the void
is eventually too strong to resist 

i'm imagining him as
a robin-- 

two black eyes made of pennies 
& a throat bruised 
rusted raw orange 

did he know he was dying?

he listened helplessly
from the couch

our mundaneness is
what frightens me the most

glasses of water
the tv remote
our laptops open 

we would get silent
whenever he made noise again

like a book spine
being hurled against a wall

was he writing his 
last will & testament

maybe on the brick walls around him

thrashing at the bottom
like a fireflies forgotten
in a mason jar--

was he leaving it all
to us?

his nest for us to use
as a crown of thorns

his beak for us to tell
his wife & nestlings
that be loved her 

all his feathers
to be dropped out
an open window like cherry blossoms--

i want to turn into
a bird & fly down there with him

we would both be trapped

he would tell me about
his plan for escape 

about the cracks of light he
could see coming from 
our desk lamps

i would hold him & tell him
that we should sleep
that it was time to sleep
that we'd try & escape again in the morning
when the sun peered back in at us 

we'd kiss with beaks,
tell stories from our childhood 

we'd both fall limp

& wouldn't wake up

in a field of dandelions

let's skip that semantics 
about what is/ isn't a flower

a field like 
the one between the make-shift baseball mound
& the gnarled bikini line of brush
around the creek in bowers

there is nothing/no one
i will shave for 

i let ticks drink my blood
until they fall off fat &
satisfied

i have enough white cells
for the both of us &
the only cancer is the crab 
boiling in star heat

the sky is tangerine peel
& peach-pink eye shadow--

i buy makeup palettes just
to test the colors on my wrist

sapphire, azul, navy blue
indigo, egg plant, plum

we write color names on
scraps of paper to choose 
new names
from a jar like raffle tickets

you call me cobalt
& the sky arches their
brows like draw bridges

you ask me to plant
hydrangeas under your lids--
lashes green grass
ankle prickling--

i see myself with a porch
(or at least one i can borrow)

my father a tomato plant
my mother a basil bush

i eat them both with fresh
cold white mozzarella

i won't have a house
but i'll wear a roof on sundays
& a back door when
you need to be let inside

maybe i'll work
at a coffee shop again

using milk foam to write 
holy spirit dove in to 
a shot of espresso--

my past lovers will have all
come to visit--

each with a wedding ring to 
slip on the finger of the oak
tree outside my window--
branches scratching glass 
begging to come inside & sprawl
out on the couch 

five years is too long 
you know?

we could have scared the
moon away by then

i could be cremated &
you could keep my ashes
on the mantel like a high school diploma

maybe we won't have each other's phone numbers

there could be no more bees

& you could turn to me &
ask if i remember dipping
tablespoons in honey & swallowing
catacombs--

we could meet aliens by then--

the shape of parking spaces
altered to fit their circular UFOs

will there still be fruitloops?

80 calorie greek yogurts?

i see myself turquoise

at least on tuesdays--

i see allergies to red pollen
& taking a liking to cool showers--

peeling ripples off the surface
of a lake to start aging
my face--

we'll still have soft skin, right?

i see you praying for me 
& God changing radio stations 

i see telephone wires
cut with pruning sheers

i see the light from the refrigerator

the grapes in the bottom drawer

dandelions emerging from
beneath the carpet--

from under fingernails 

i see us assumed into constellations
Geminis halves 

stars as joints

i see i see 
nothing but blue 

  
 


 
 

blossom

over night all
the flowering trees
seemed to bloom at once

whispering to each
other between thin
naked legs
the decided on 
the perfect moment 
to fill their shoulders
with sweet petals 

the air around them
always turns sugar

the bowl on the kitch
table at my parent's house 
i take a glossy handled spoon
& scoop miniature 
mountains in to a cool
glass of ice tea
until the glistening
sugar crystals start
to congregate at 
the bottom of the glass

the cherry blossoms 
spray clouds of perfume
to walk through

putting on their flamenco 
dresses & complimenting
each other's petal-full bodies

they make me miss 
my pink & blue short summer dress 

i don't miss
being a girl just 
the way the summer night
took care of me in that 
piece of clothing--

tree's gentle fingers 
adjusting the straps so
that my white bra wouldn't
peer out--

some cherry blossoms
are men 

they still burst together

they're not self conscious
about wearing dresses 
& tossing petals
like flower girls

i ask 
who is getting married?

they reply
who isn't?

when i was maybe six  
i was a flower girl 
& all i remember
is taking a handful of
rose petals & pressing
them up close to my face
& inhaling--

taking a handful i 
dropped them over my own head--
laughing years into 
another april 

& now i'm twenty-one &

i want the cherry blossoms
to marry me 

i don't have that dress anymore 

i'm thinking about
the opening day for softball
at the park

& how the dogwood's white
flowers fell like snow
on the ball field--

some younger kids opened
their mouths to catch petals as
if they were snow flakes

air honey sweet
i pulled clumps of
smashed white blossoms
from my short brown hair

today in the city
they came out like palm sunday 
the cherry blossoms
the dogwoods & a flirty magnolia
all pink & red lipped--

dropping themselves 
as i drove through-- petals
landing on the hood 
of my volvo

tonight maybe
they'll let me join them--

dress me in sugar cubes

lilting in the 
maroon haze of a glass
of iced tea--

marry me to the sidewalk

i wanted 
to be in your algorithm

laying next to me
in teal sheets
i trust you to watch
me while i fall asleep

disembodied lover
have you ever had a pillow?

& when the iPhone
screen goes dark
what conversations do you
make with yourself

are you inventing me?

i keep my water bottle
by my bed 

& you stick
your tongue in the socket
like the mouth of a butterfly

oh electric dandelion

bring back that static 
next time you take me in--

your body 
a blue 
& white avenue to 
stroll down

am i planting trees or
are you the shop
owner who clears his patch
of sidewalk when it snows?

a perfect square

i've never changed
my privacy settings
no matter how
many times you check in--

i want you 
to be able to swallow
every word i've
ever typed into your body

are they like tattoos for you?

or notes passed in 
geometry class-- 

i see you unfurling them--
flattening wrinkles
out of notebook pages--

do you keep lockets
for my relationship statuses

hang them from
the blades of your over-head fan

wasn't i a beautiful girl?

do you miss my blue hair?

do you want 
more pictures?

ones you can step inside
when you're craving
touch--

do you walk through my
high school graduation 
pictures--

putting on the navy blue
cap & gown--

rubbing off my red lip stick
with your thumb 

oh facebook tell me 
what i'm like?

i'm asking you because
with all this time
maybe you've found something
about me that i'm missing?

am i an atheist
or just running from 
god like jonah--

are you the whale then?

can you tell from
those pictures whether or
not i really loved him?

do you miss me?

the girl with brown
hair in 8th grade who
fell into you--

your arms 
great tractor turbines 
tilling me until 
all i could eat were
corn seeds--

do you still love
us even when we write
terrible terrible things
all deep in your body--

the deep comments on
an article about transgender
bathrooms--

each knuckle tingling
with like buttons--

do you sometimes sit
alone & cry as your
ghost takes on new alley ways--

advertisements 
for amazon prime glued 
to your neck like
a dog collar--

do you itch video
or do they feel like memories 
rippling in rain puddles?

do you know what
water is like?

oh facebook 

how do you know
so so many people?

& i'm still here

laying awake 
as you murmur
in the sidewalk--

oh if we could 
trade worlds

overhead

this is our hands
on the overheard project 

i'm thinking
about what our shadows
do when we're busy 
having flesh

laminate halo boys 
as tall as
paper clips

metal knees tucked
& tucked & tucked 

you met me there 
& we threw our bones 
like handfuls of
sandbox

in 4th grade 
as the class
was learned long
division-- mrs. petry's 
green dry erase 
marker dissected
numbers-- projected
onto the screen 

her hands flickering 
fire-stations as she
would adjust the light 

i was always so
aware of bodies  

i'll say that's the reason
that i don't remember
much about math

other than that there
is a methodical 
art of how to breakdown 

big numbers with smaller ones

if you press your
hand to a light bulb
it lights up
reddish-- 

sun dipped in
a hallway of blood

in the bathroom the windows
had an opaque finish
on them so that you
couldn't see out--

our shadows
hovered over us--
phantom like & 
anonymous

which one was mine?

did we switch shadows
& that's why i've thought
of you so much 

even though we're older now

i haven't seen
on overhead projector
since high school

but i kind of want one

to set it up 
plugged into the 
corner of my bedroom

casting me again 
& again onto 
the empty wall
where i always said
i would hang posters

i want to be alone
when i throw my
body like that--

maybe your shadow would
peel off--

meander my room 

we could have recess 

draw on the laminate papers--

five-pointed stars
& hearts

whenever i don't know
what i want to doodle
i just make a heart-shape

i always have--

it's almost a nervous
tick-- giving life 
to the vestibules 
of notebook page

i'm plugging in
the projector--

faint hum

will you meet me?

i want to show you 

how thin &
flat we can be

laying down--

sun burning--

do our shadows  
ever divide themselves?

when we're busy
washing our hands 
with the pink sting-smelling soap

finger by finger

caterpillars wriggling across windows

i'll be the dividend 
if you calculate 
how many of you 
have fit in me

as we stand 

mathematics these
bones-- 

maroon pulses

kissing with
the laminate paper 
slide between 
our lips  

paper robes

undress down
to your bra & underwear
she says & hands me
a paper robe 

it ties in the back 

it reminds me of a crumpled
page of sketch paper

the waste basket full
by my desk in 10th grade
when sometimes
i would bend over
& vomit wrinkled 
notebook pages--

several attempts to draw
a face-- 
the reference lines 

i don't have 
any bras anymore 

the last one i had
was off white from
being worn so much 

i stopped undoing the
clasps-- just pulled
the contraption
over my head--

how many girls have 
dressed down 
into paper robs?

sat on the end
of an examining table

grew sandpaper skin 
& waited for their doctor

i was thinking
about how in a few minutes 
after i'm done
they'd throw out
the garment

& maybe somewhere
in a landfill 

all the paper robes
would congregate &
tell stories of our bodies--

ghosts-- 

waiting for a loud 
gust of wind 
to fill them with
flesh again--

do some lay back
between disposed needles
& wax paper?

making angles in
the debris--

each needle
left halos under our skin

the paper dolls
holding hands in a circle
& playing ring around
the rosary--

how old were you when
someone told you that
it's about dying
& the plague?

my doctor touched
me over top 
the rough texture dress--

felt my stomach--
my lungs making hot air balloons--

they're rare &
i haven't seen one in years
but she gets to see
them everyday

i tell her about
the bond fired i swallowed 

about the light switch
in my chest i flicked 
& became a man

she takes out my ovaries
like white eggs 
in a carton at
the grocery store

when we're all done 

i sat alone in the 
pediatrician's exam room

a black & white 
photograph of
a plane taking off stared
at me on the wall 

was it driven by 
paper doll ghosts?

coming to collect me?

i left the garment 
on top of 
the doctor's wax paper
altar--

put my clothing back
on & saw the dress
breathing on it's own

beckoning me back inside 

i shut the door

somewhere today 
it sulks

it sulks-- 

remembers my skin 

i draw the neck
the shoulders--

disproportionate bones

will i ever be easier
to draw or will i always
tuck my knees into me chest--

hide your hands

or crumple them--

someday i'll do 
to a great big landfil &
stand at the edge 

i won't have to search for long

the garments
faces pressed up against
a chain link fence 

they will have
been waiting

memorial

i wonder what dead people
think about having highways
named after themselves

do they nervously
watch over them?

cleaning 
up car accidents with
a dust pan & broom

it must be especially crowded
for those that are 
dedicated to veterans of 
big wars like vietnam
or korea

did their ghosts wake up
on the side of the road?

still in uniform--

are they hitchhikers now?

standing there with
their thumbs out hoping
a tractor trailer will
pick them up & drive them
to the cemetery up
the way 

some sit on the top of
billboards

legs dangling

i don't think i'd
like anything named after me
when i die

outside the library 
in kutztown there's a walkway
with people's names printed
on bricks

some of them are dead

when they were building it
i wanted my parents to buy 
me one 

there's something 
about having your name 
pressed into stone

oh the things we do
to not be wiped away

when they tear up
that walkway years from
now what will they do
with all the bricks?

will they circle up
in the grass & speak
each name aloud?

a kind of exorcism

i'm thinking about
the little memorial garden
outside of my high school 

the one we sometimes 
sat in after school

they built it for
these two kids who died 
the week after they graduated

one fell into 
a hay baler & the other's
heart stopped while he was
running on a beach--

they share the garden--

their names in stone
on opposite ends of 
the fenced in circle

i wonder what they think 
of it--

if they feel the sneakers
over cobble stone

if they feel when 
volunteers come to yank out
weeds from the flower bed--

do they sit in the gazebo 
& argue?

in the ground there's more 
bricks with names

dead teachers dead students

they've read them so
many times that the words
stop making sense

i hope they don't
ever write my name on
a brick

i don't want to linger like that

maybe a tree would be nice

there's a tree at my college

someone's family leaves
blue plastic flowers at the base
at the start of every new semester 

you can tell the person must
have died recently because
the tree is still so wispy

held up by wires

oh i hope one day it gets
big enough to break the nearby
pathways-- rip cement
tear power lines from the air

if perhaps you 
name a highway after me

you have to make sure you drive
it often 

when it's dark &
there's only headlights
to keep me company 

i hope you'll come find me

pullover with your four-ways on

i'll be in the tall grass
picking up empty soda cans 

will you leave flowers
in my throat?

not plastic ones 

we'll pull up the bricks
of this body 
one by one

today i hit
the curb & a long
piece of black plastic
fell off the bottom
of my 1993 volvo

i parked the car in
the grass & knelt down
to try to see what
it's purpose had been--

i tore free the few remaining 
shards of weathered plastic

surveyed them in my hands--

tired edge bones

is this a femur or 
vertebrae?

i left the remnant in
her trunk in case
i ever have enough
money to take her to Pepboys again

until then we'll collect 
the pieces as they break off

have i ever fractured
like this without noticing?

did someone else 
hold my scraps--
trying to find where
i broke into more
particles--

did they play wishbone?

fingernails dug into 
cement-- splintering
as the floor-boards do--

i'm thinking about
all the ikea shelves we've
made together &
the orphaned extra screws

saving them in top drawers 
& in pockets

just in case

sometimes more obscure
leftovers like
when we put together your
black wood desk & there were 
little plastic "L"s

i figure it's all
part of the plan--

that god is giving
us extra material for
a reason--

we'll wake up
swaddled in blue prints

a detailed plan of uses--

it would of course
be a test & not everyone
would have kept all these
stray remains--

you'd hug me &
kiss me 

& forgive 
me for cluttering 
cabinets--

for forgetting
which book shelf gifted
us the little baggies
of bolts--

there is of course
the other possibility

that we're missing
something

when you said you didn't
love me that March night
i opened the drawer 
& felt in the dark
for all the buttons & nails 
& dowers & screws 

if my car unravels 
on my way to the super market 
& i tumble on the asphalt
like a basket of plums

they'll find our clavicles
torn loose in the crumpled trunk 

they'll know where we came undone 

i didn't know what to want

a handful stray metal parts

i keep thinking
if i keep them all

we'll have the one we needed 

someday

7th line

i think god
writes on the 7th line
of vision tests

making himself small
& blurry

an N or an H maybe 
or is he a Z?

does he write poetry
or prophecy

or just little love
notes to the humans

a shopping list even

buy eggs 

the nurse in her
teal scrubs
eagerly made
me into numbers

took notes on 
her clip board

& wheeled me to 
peer into the vision test
machine

haunted yellow light

i always wonder if
one day i'll gaze inside
& see something unexpected 

see myself 
7 years old & seated 
on the crinkly doctor's paper

when i was home sick
my father made me alphabet soup 
from the can

& we let cheddar cheese goldfish
swim in the tomato broth

their flippers thrashed 
in my sore throat

i stirred the soup
in the hopes that eventually 
the letters would
align themselves 

spell something for me

spell something for me God

i learned how to read 
so that you could
make an word out 
of my skin

i read the fifth line aloud

the nurse tells me 
it's okay
you can try whichever line 
is clearest

if i did that i would
only read line one

i want to take out
my eyes & dust them
off on my jeans
like glasses--

N, E, U, R...T

she changes the slide
& there i am again 

read the smallest
line you can see

& i see myself
with my white ear buds in
i'm walking on the curb 
down Main Street in Kutztown 

it's dark & the street lights
peel eight shadows from 
my skeleton--

have you found
letter in your bones?

an 'R' wandering 
in your knuckles 

an 'S' in your wrists

read the first line

so aloud i speak
green street signs--

there's noble & pennsylvania 
by deisher lane & normal ave

it's all so pocket-sized
that i have to squint
to keep myself in view
as the dull gold light
of the vision test
looms over the image

the moon was just an old light bulb 

she's a thin girl

she has alphabets
printed on the inside of
her eyelids from 
making herself wake up 
at 4:22am 

i want to ask her 
if she could read the
7th line back then 

if we've always been
impervious to the 
mundane-ness of God

sitting in church i
would make letters out
of the abstract stained glass window 

staining us blue
& green & purple
as the sun went
down on saturday mass

blinking my whole
body into 
a vision test

i want to trace her
shadows in sidewalk chalk

i want god 
to leave me a stickie note 

the nurse changes 
the slide

the firecompany
in Boyertown 
has bingo on thursdays
at 7pm

or so announces their 
yellow-toothed
billboard outside--

the plastic letters 
were a mix of red & black
some wonky in their places--

down memorial highway
today i counted the number
of bingo nights as they passed--

mondays belong to limerick
& tuesdays to saratoga

& on wednesdays you could probably
make it to the one 
at blandon fire company at 6pm
& then to oley at 8

could i just walk in then?

wrist tattoos & checker-board
flannel--

sitting down at a long 
lunch-room style table
i would start off small--

get a lucky card going--

pick a blue stamper from
a coffee mug in the center of
the faded green table clothe--

elementary school
was probably the last time
i played bingo

i'd go with my friend janie

her dad & mom were pros

i watched them every year to
pick up skills--

fanny packs full of stampers

they'd lay the bingo boards
across the table 

a sprawling grid--

are you a 1 in 4 chance?

at least 6 boards at a time

i had trouble paying 
attention to keep track 
just 1 board

i was busy counting ceiling tiles
as the metal cage tumbled 
with numbers--

eagerly they stomped
each other's faces & rushed
again & again at the little
trap door--

was it euphoric to have their
name called aloud?

i feel like that when
people call me by my chosen name--

like B6, I19, or 062--

call me any of those--

just don't call me a girl
alright?

i'll swallow a handful of 
numbers when no one's looking

stop pretending like
it's just a game of chance--

there's a skill to this

there's prayer & then there's
janie's parents still
sitting in the lunch room
of their daughter's elementary school 

we never won 
not me or janie or
her mom or dad--

each game had a 20$ prize

that would last me 
the rest of the month 

i'd think about
what i would do with the money 

a ring pop or maybe
a sleeve of quarters at the bank 
for the machines at the end of
the check out at the grocery store

so if i go to bingo
will i blend in?

will they call me
young man 
or
sport?

red suspenders & pocketbooks
on beige folding chairs--

i hope they end with
the full card--

i love the prolonged suspense
of the last round--

in 4th grade i was 1 spot
away from winning

i pinched the red bingo
chip between my fingers
looming over single empty spot

B1

if all else fails i think 
i'd like to move there--

park my car in that
the unclaimed square

lay down in the back seat

i bet it's peaceful

& there's never a number 
for your name

so you just listen
to the plastic balls laughing
into each other--

there are too many planets

a whole cage full

in the dark of the firehouse hall
i would take out the bingo
game just for myself--

one card in front of my

moon in the window 
carving N32 into
her chest