horseshoe crab eggs

was i born first
as a golden mustard seed?
a horseshoe crab egg

planetary & aching 
with pre-history--

oh trembling moons

clustered & foaming 
in the salty mouth 
of the shore--

when i had a sore throat
as a little girl i would
sit on the kitchen counter
& gargle salt water 

my mother mixed it
with a teaspoon in a mason jar

she said:

this is to remind 
you of home

& with her reddish pincher legs
she would turn back 
into the surf

i was telling you
yesterday about how
i still think of
all the horseshoe crabs 
we saw on the shore
that night in stone harbor

when the moon was also
an embryo--

do you know have many
of their eggs
fit on the face of
a quarter?

is this how god thinks
of us all?

like caviar or 
dislodged rosary beads
laid in the cold sand--

i asked you
if you thought 
the horseshoe crabs
had any awareness of 
what was happening?

that they were becoming parents

or if it would purely impulse
to find a lover
on the beach that night--

did they have hopes
for me?

my horseshoe crab parents 
as they scarred each other's
copper shells in
the violence of the tide 

tide drawn in & out--

the hem of a dress

my father hung green wispy 
curtains in my bed room 
like a veil--

in the summer when the 
air-conditioning churned 
they thrashed like 
vocal chords--

do they have voices then?
the horseshoe crabs 

if i open my mouth
will i speak it--

is it the sound you
hear when you put your
ear to a conch shell--

my father taught me
that trick--

he put the shell to
my ear & i pushed it away--

i was terrified that
something would crawl
out of the cove of the shell--

i remembered our 
arachnid legs--

saw them clamoring
for my ears--

i want to know 
what it's like to see
with so many eyes--

i gave mine up
as i got older--

slipping them into pockets
like marbles--
cupping them in my hands 
like minnows to be let
go in the stream by my house

who do they see for?

does god sometimes 
kneel & look through
a set of their pupils--

does he feel in touch 
with the earth?

does he take a handful 
of eggs & decide which 
ones will live--

yes that one is me--

i came pink & naked
from beneath an exo skeleton--

learning how
to be human came easily

the doll houses & tea sets

uncle rich called me
a fish for how long
i lingered in water--

drank from the hose
& put my head under water
in the bath--

what would they think of
me now?

my horseshoe crab parents--

are they still alive
or did a sea gull leave
them only a husk?

if i found them
i would thank them 
for my body--

i would show them 
my bedroom & 
fill the world up
with salt water--

foaming on the windows
& in the bathtub 

rust

broken glass 
bit ankles 

& we watched the rust
as it made its
way up our forearms

the trail up
the street from
your house in muhlenberg
became part of our bodies--

come march 
we went to check on
our cold spring thawed blood--

the mulberries blistering 
from trees above
would soon fall & become
mush on the asphalt--

you'd make me eat them
& i'd wonder if they 
were poison

the romance of eating 
poison berries
with a young lover

i remember what our
theater director
said about juliet 
being the smartest 
person of any shakespeare play

i see her in me

shoo-ing invisible boys
from her windowsill like gnats

you kissed me like a handful
of gravel & i loved
the grit of your teeth--

we made skeletons 
outside ourselves--

tattooed the elderly 
trees with our names
so that they wouldn't 
be allowed to forget
the three springs we
spent with them--

or were we both romeo?

with our tendencies for poison--

i think we all are to a degree--

falling in love with the idea
of beautiful girls in ourselves
or others--

were there beautiful girls 
in the broken glass 
of the factory building?

the one by the trail--
surrounded by a brush & 
man-made stones

we would walk there to
take pictures with our cell phone
cameras--

broken glass beneath shoes 

untamed wires frayed 
on the cement ground

we took one of us kissing
as the light smirked in
the hole in the roof

a red rusted silo burst with 
dandelion heads

yesterday you said

why can't we just let 
them be flowers?

& i felt their seeds
in my throat-- 

cropping 
up like unwanted babies--

their pinkish fingers
pulling my tongue--

the whole factory was
infected with weeds
& then infected with us

what did they used to make there?

even in the back rooms we never found
any evidence of what the vast
carcass of a building had been
used for--

a 7-UP bottle from 1983

a filing cabinet desperately empty
one drawer bent open as if
its jaw bone were ripped
from skin--

we didn't take anyone else
there-- 

just me & you & the way
the window made the factory's body
scream--

occasionally more of
the ceiling would fall when 
we were there--

or was it the sky?

poison raining with
the mulberries--

we were virus in the legs
of the trees--
ringworms or maybe
parasitic like ticks--

i wore mosquito bites
for you like a charm bracelet--

i haven't gone back

maybe they tore the whole
thing down or
maybe at night
the factory gets to work--

lights bleary 
as the sun dandelion growls 
to sleep

have you gone back there
without me?

is there rust
left in you?

ir.rhythm

last night i fell
into an orchestra--

no crash of cymbal
but the dripping of the clarinet 
mouths on the wooden floor
of the stage--

before the last song
the conductor made a tribute 
to the rhythm of 
ordinary life--

to heart beats & 
tapping pens on desks--

i don't think i believe her

does everyone have
as irregular a tempo as
i do?

growing up 
we had an electric drum set
in our attic 

& my father tried to teach
me the simplest beat

tish-tish tash
tish-tish tash

on the snare & the high hat
i could never ad 
in the bass drum--

i would feel whatever
semblance of rhythm 
i had found 

running away from
me without its shoes on--

moth wing laughing 
on the neon lit ceiling--

even without stumbling
over foot pedals
my patterns always sped up
or slowed down--

it's tragic because i
love the idea of percussion--

in the back of the band room
in middle school 
after practice i meandered between
bongos & tablas--

tapping their course skin surfaces 

i found ir-rhythms--
their rain fall euphoria

the talking drum with it's tongue
down my throat--
each thumb striking skull--

i never wanted to be
a drummer in a band---

i just wanted to fight out
my own cadence--

oh are there people
who can live in 4/4 time?

have you ever thought of
your body as a metronome?

i can still see the frustration
of my first guitar teacher as
he shook his head--
stuck the end of a pencil
in his mouth 

telling me to
keep up keep up

i tore out the electric strings
they ran down my back

oh fret-board spine

music & me have always been
out of sync--

my father worked nights back
then & ate dinner 
on the sofa when i got
up for 7th grade-- 

my youngest brother still
only a castanet 

amplifier snap--

i don't want to find 
rhythms for you--

sometimes i live only
to spite conductors

their batons swinging 
above my head--

i stepped on the
lips of my old trumpet--

the drum set in the attack
chews femurs 
for sticks

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

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

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 

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

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--

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

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--