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
Uncategorized
03/21
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
03/20
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
the attic
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
03/19
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
out-numbered
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
03/18
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
03/17
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?
03/16
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
03/15
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--
Robin Gow 