the rain switched to sand

& i went to bed with
the hush of each grain falling--

a muffled sigh-- 

soothe the ache of windowpanes--

making hourglass earth--

turn & turn & turn 

& the face of each clock filled--
stagnant arms--

my own elbows & forearms
heavier with the stubborn death
of watches--

time escape each face &
turning into more 

flecks of sand--

glisten in the emptying moon

the whole solar system coming
down-- giving-- bones eroding-- 

before the night is
over the ceiling caved--

commandment tiles peeled away
& promptly buried--

their sins no longer applicable

have you ever made a grave for
your wrongs?

what confessionals did you build?

i think about Ozymandias

& the level sands stretching
far away &

i know i will never
remember all the words
to that poem--

so i find a tree branch--

one from the very top
of the oak tree in the playground--

sand devoured torso--

my own body sinking with 
each step 

as the sun crawls on
her hands & knees up the
side of the crooked-toothed
mountains--

curled into a ball--

she has long brown hair 
& a pair of scissors 
to save herself--

she eats planets like
cheerios--

her stomach fire lover--

so i find a tree branch

& i think about the zen gardens

the ones we always said
"we should make one someday"

with lines patient enough
to hold every duvet of a body--

a corn field un-planeted 
& brave--

the seeds are in the souls 
of my feet--

king of kings of king of kings--

to make lines of it all--

there is so much comfort 
in evenness--

stick dug into earth--
trailing behind me as i meander--

lines wavering--

the ocean resurrected 
itself in me--

seashells in my bones 

when the sun searches for
the moon tonight

she will come up empty--

she will plunge her
hands frantic into
the sands-- 

lift pyramids & 
castles & the playground 
swing set i once believed
could send me into orbit

she'll find me--
knees tucked into my chest--
as i wait for cool night
& sleep--

i clutch the stick like
a rifle--

she comes 
storm sobbing 

blanketing me 
like a stone

the first hour & prometheus 

you say that
after the power goes out
the first hour
is the most fun

& i stood in the stairwell
while the ceiling flickered 

sun quivering--
her flesh swarmed by 
the cellophane wings of snowflakes

knees buckling in
the torsos of trees--

dropping limbs like rain--

your car snare-drum
smashed-- holographic 
on the shoulders of the road--

did you feel me blink
in & out of existence?

where was i when i
wasn't sitting
here with you?

where did the light
take herself?

packing her bags in the driveway--

leaving stray socks &
open dresser doors--

& i tell you that 

i am fascinated by praying--

that i don't know if 
i believe in it 

but that every time something goes
wrong i pray out of habit--

i don't think it's
something that is believed in

but rather just happens
no, i don't
mean just our fathers 
or hail marys

i mean nebulously--

a yearning skeleton--

tongue as a candle-- 
glimmering as i drop 
it down my throat--

the sink still wax dripping
in the kitchen--

have you ever misplaced your
tongue in a fit of desire?

as if wishing for
light could will it back
into or lamps--

as if there would ever be a god 
who would respond to 
the fears of a moth as 
small as me--

we talk about confessionals 
& priests like telephone operators

about our own baptisms
 
& the will of babies 

being dipped into water--

their souls instantly salvaged
in a dip of water--

& i remembered the cardinal 
making a sign of the cross
on my forehead in oil 

saying my patron saint's 
name wrong 

that's me the eleven-year-old  
telling him he was wrong--

Kateri Tekakwitha 

say her name right

& all the candles in
the church blew out at once--

at home afterwards 
i stained my
white robe with blood &
fermented baptism water--

ceiling lilting-- 

god's throat swallowing smoke--

the first hour 
is the most fun you say

when the power goes out

& we leave the house
behind like a deer carcass
on the side of the road--

i tell myself that
this is what i wanted--

this kind of humanity

this kind of chaos
without street lamps-- 

when god laughs at prometheus

our arrogance for 
thinking fire 
was un-revocable--

all the letters on
each page turn blurry &
becoming snow flake--

the blizzard has come
to infect us as well--

moving on from the sun
& shuddering-- six-legged
beneath our skins--

the first hour
we keep in the top
drawer in the kitchen--

somewhere my mother
is sewing a blanket
for before i go

away to college--

let me burn a candle 

i want to burn a candle 

i find myself alone
without desire for 
a tongue--

cut it out & use
it as kindling--

my bed room a kind of 
closed fist--

i strike a match 
& set out tea lights--

find myself praying--

not for light this
time but for a feeling 
i have no word for yet--

opening my mouth
hive of clear wings--

oh prometheus 
i understand

we are both such 
thieves 

this is the black line for your legal name
pie-cutter veins-- pen-leak your legal name

we sat--marble notebook line-conjuring
born blue-retainer teeth to fix a name

your thumb prints migrated to wing-span knees 
abandoned geese inhabit your last name

mother with her furious paperwork--
the birth certificate gnawing your name  

these audacious snow children: self-naming 
fear me black feathered & illegal named 





  

the planets

you
carried the solar system
on the surface
of a CD--

made two-dimensional 
orbit--

rainbow refraction--

replacing gravity

we swore we could
see gravity--
smooth & metallic in
our fingers--

greedily
stuffing our pockets--

it felt like tinsel 

or the pull of the CD player
as it swallowed us
into our mother's
blue station wagon--

began playing 
the seven movement 
orchestral suite
of Gustav Holst 

the planets 

what made him think
he could give a voice
to someone as
loud as saturn?

me & you walked all the way
out to the sixth planet 
just to see what she really
sounded like--

the sidewalk 
is full of black holes 

& we lose the car keys--

boom box floating 
by in the vastness of space--

when we arrive
we find the rings are really
made of sheet music 

& cassette tapes dismantled--
their insides halo-making 

we hear it--

the soft hush of violin 
& trumpet & drums
recoiling from mallets-- 

saturn 
the bringer of old age 

i don't know if
you still have that CD
but if you don't we can
take a walk again--

past the blinking neons
lights of jupiter 
& the lusty cloud cover
of earth--

past the war-torn heat of 
mercury 

& the love-poem moons 
of venus--

i always liked saturn 

the way she keeps
a hula hoop--

the way she believes 
in flutes & 
the quiet yet to
come out of our bones--

when we are old 

& i forget what the planets
sound like will you
remind me?

catch the boom box

or push the CD into
my mouth--

past my teeth--

who knew the solar system
would be so easily devoured 

i'll let myself become
entangled in her rings--

open my mouth 

a phonograph body--

& when you sit
out on the porch--

ghost of a violin in one hand--
steering wheel in the other

listen close 
for me--

& steal another handful 
of gravity

i am so tired tonight

taking off my
tan pants & button-up
& binder--

down to my boxers--

standing at drawn
window blinds & thinking
how close i am 
to being terrarium 

& how many nights
i have glanced up at
dorm buildings to 
see open-window creatures--

citrus monsters--
pink peeling skin

i wrap 
myself in the teal blanket 

the blanket 
i once bought for you
& then you gave back--

that was two years ago 
when i still argued 
for a belief in god--

when i was reading hunter
s. thompson in an attempt
to remember your voice--

have you ever
felt an ending before
it happened?

i don't mean like
predicting an ending--

i mean feeling it 

i know there are 74 hours
until i graduate college

but today i feel glossary--

i feel us epilogue-ing--

summoning the ghosts
of our freshman girls--

the ones who still eat 
Dairy Queen sundaes in the
graveyard--

red plastic spoons in
between teeth--

have i never
told you how terrified i
was of us?

of the old trees
whose roots i discovered 
deep in my thighs--

the first week--

their blood 
a kind of new ancestry--
of motherhood leaves--

i have grown less afraid 
of un-locked doors--

i leave mine open--

this is an invitation 
to god & other angels

or a 14 year old girls with long
brown hair & a desire
to wear red panties--

i'm feeling myself 
caught in all these 

stairwells who've 
gulped down my voice--

oh the ball-point
pens we would dig into walls--

oh the bricks 
who would fail us--

you reading me a poem 
you reading me a poem 

i listen to your mouth
as if it were a window
i would get to climb into--

i was terrified of us

of falling in love
with your teeth--

oh i did i did--

this is the feeling
of the sound of broken plate 

of the closing
of a bathroom stall door--

your porch giving me
more shadows than i deserved 

you don't live there anymore
but you always will--

& tonight i felt 
the mythical flyleaf-page breeze--

the numb-- the blank

read me a poem 
read me a poem 

the back cover
is that oak that
fell in thunderstormed glory--

what a way to end--

her carcass dismantled--

taken apart by
maintenance staff--

her rings still rippling
through damp earth--

how many years
did we touch
when we sat at her base?

she was selfish

for not kissing me

skin to bark
to moss

wrench 

i noticed my
brass hinge-wrists--

i can't sleep with
the roof so heavy 
on top of us--

i'm thinking about
the story of my grandfather
taking his teacher's car apart 

& re-assembling it on the roof of his
school building 

i never believed the story 
when my father told it to us 

as he rocking-chaired
& sipped from the rim 
of a brown bottle--

i never believed it
 
but i wanted to imagine it--

my grandfather working
long into the night-- greasy 
wrench heavy in his rough hands--

what do you take apart first?

the hub capes?

remove the steering wheel?

i woke up this morning
with my grandfather's 
red monkey wrench on the
floor by my bed

& i went out back to the
parking lot-- 

the impulse to deconstruct
is unavoidable--

on days like this he is my
patron saint--

black smudges on his
knuckles-- 

he left finger prints
on my white bed room walls--

i touch them to see if
they have the same shape as mine--

what how much  body do we share?

i get
on my knees

start with the headlights--

still warm as blood 

from the last drive up main street--

next comes the hood
which i snap off 
like a canned peach lid--

sugar syrup on my fingers--

set aside the pieces
in the dew-slick grass

would he be proud of me?

does he smile about
how i went to work
with his wrench
without hesitation? 

my father keeps his tools
in the basement--

cool cement on
bare feet--

i borrow a Phillips-head
screw driver to 
take apart the glove box--

i have recently had the urge
to hid myself in the glove box

he tells me to 
take apart your hiding places--

&  i'm scared because
he's right

& as i take off the front
wheels of the car i cry &
think about all the times i 
got flat tires &
thought the world would end--

how many potholes i made
beds in--

roll each wheel
across the lot--

how many nut & bolts
does your skeleton have?

will you put yourself
back together on the roof
for everyone to see?

when i put green volvo 
back together

i want to do so beneath
my bed--

we're too heavy for
the roof 

& down here i can
turn on the headlights--

my own little planets--

sleep in the parking
space out back

face up towards
the steering wheel moon 

i've been wondering what darwin 
would think of me--

the queer body-blasphemous boy 
with the hormone needle in his thigh--

sophomore year of high school
our biology teacher Mrs. Knight
didn't teach us evolution--

the assignment was to write 
our beliefs in a paper 

3 options
creationism, intelligent design, or evolution

this poem is the 4th option--

& for years i was proud of my
vehement defense of intelligent design--

my entropy empty cells--

as if my god ever had 
enough ink to write what we 
would become--

i laugh at the notion
of blue prints-- my cells
break the dining room window
with a folding chair--

crawl in on hands & knees

i had to force myself into my
own body--

i'm thinking about 
Gregor Mendel--
the monk who grew peas & figured
out about genes--

would he plant heredity
like a halo at my widow'speak?

would he ask me if
any other family members 
of mine had come out like this 

like lock smiths
of our own front doors--

i dislike wreaths--

the door is only another
word for tongue--

my freckles taste like nutmeg

& there's Mendel in
his garden-- when the peas
trade colors he kills them
out of fear--

let's come back to darwin--

in freshman composition we
read the origin of species 

when i say his name i think of him
sitting in that same old photograph

black hat & scraggly white beard 
on the inside cover
of the book

"my work is nearly finish"
he says--

like i said the first time
i cut off all my hair
salon tile floor--

fingers stained with blue dye--

it takes centuries to make 
a body-- 

darwin you sold me lies

that "each species had not been 
independently created"

you cannot rid my skin of
creation-- there
are gods that exist
only in my own bones--

this is the collage--
the frankenstein magazine body--

this theory is messy & involves 
the clipped wings of canaries

my desk lamp flickering
as i sew my hands back 
onto my wrists finger by finger--

rebellious tendons--

this re-evolution--

these bodies find their own 
fossils to trust--

oh darwin 

"we shall then see how Natural Selection 
almost inevitably causes much Extinction 

of the less improved forms of life"

i want to ask him 

if what i've done to my body 
has ever counted as "extinction" 

if he knows how
many match stick heads have
died in my forearms for this--

this theory is of self-love

this theory makes new bodies

this theory doesn't have a species--

is un-natural--

was never selected--

i am full aware that nature would
never have selected me--

i selected my own bones from
Mendel's garden--

from the white flowers &
stakes driven into the wet earth--

my skin is sedimentary--

oh darwin
do you believe in the rocks
that i bit open?

shipping & handling

weight yourself at the UPS store
up the street to discover how much
postage you will need--

steal your father's stamps--

he will not notice

adhere them each 
to the base of your neck--

while you're there
stuff envelops--

you'll want to take the cedar
with you-- the one you
once wrote a poem beneath--

another one will be big enough
to fit the entire night sky 
from that one evening in
the park pavilion when

we sat on the wooden picnic benches

talked about ice cream cones &
what we would do that summer--

don't forget to find
a cardboard box for each 
of the seasons we've had--

the snow the pummeled
the door frames-- asking
to sleep at the foot
of the bed--

those perfect autumns-- 
take all the leaves
& don't worry about
the shipping & handling--

it is imperative
that we take everything--

chewing packing peanuts
by the handful--

lately i taste nomadic--

peel tape off
my lips in the morning--

tell myself

no not today--

i have more time--

my address unwrites
itself--

"return" is a word full
of presumption

as if somehow this
room has swallowed enough
of me to be somewhere
to return to--

i have made a ghost
to haunt perhaps apartments
between 600-800$ a month
in garden city--

their bare bodies--
their clean counter tops--
their open windows--

i write their addresses
one after another 
down my own back--

so that they know 
i have a places i could
be shipped to--

back of the mail truck--
jostling next to all
these packages--

who writes letters anymore?

i want to fantasize that
back there i will 
lay in a meadow of
love letters-- of penpals
writing back from france--

in sixth grade
a tried to have a penpal
from france but they never 
wrote back--

i wonder if they have
my letter--

if they wrote to me
& never sent it--

if they decided to write
to someone else

if they know my address
& plan on returning--

can you return somewhere 
you haven't been yet?

i want you to know
that i think of you 
as a return address--

there are numbers 
in between your fingers 

& when we hold hands
i wipe 2s & 1s & 5s 
off on my thighs--

i don't want to write you down

i hope you are one of
those letters

the ones in the back
of the mail truck taking
me to an empty
apartment somewhere i will
soon think of returning to--

& when i get there
the first thing i will
do is open that package
with that night in it--

let the walls grow dark--
freckled with stars

sitting on top the wooden
park bench--

openning your envelop

you will find your river bed voice next year
& make your peace with the crayfish next year 

hair pulled strand by strand from black trash can lips
replant them-- you will grow daughters next year 

burn old photographs--mark forehead with ash
she is dead now-- you can visit next year 

live annual: mouth daffodil ready 
feel March biting: you've been alive one year

eating white hourglass sand--spoon in hand
you remember her less clear year to year

i blue-dream i'll kiss you into next year 
your aqua body beneath clouds all year

knot

in sunday school we learned
that monks used to make knots
in their belts to us as rosary beads--

finger & thumb-- 

coarse caress-- 
prayer tangles itself-- 

in fingers-- in bodies--

a fist to hold god in--

how big are your hands?
big enough to tie up god?
fishtail braid him-- 

my mother braided my hair 
only once: a wicker basket--
carried applies & peaches--

pick me up by the stem--

i imagined myself at school 
with a brown monk-robe

counting hail marys as i balanced on
the edge of the playground--

the chain-link fence clanging
beneath my canvas shoes--
i wanted to teach my friends how
to tie knots--

how to make prayer tangible--

something to hold onto--

i left knots everywhere
as if one of them would
catch god by the index finger 

a trap--

i was a girl who set traps--

the draw-strings blinds 
in the sun room--
my mother's spools 
of brown wool yarn--
american girl doll hair--

standing alone in the 
dark sacristy-- 

white altar server robe--

running fingers through the tassels
of the rope wrapped around me--

holding me together-- 
making my own knots--

me-- a Franciscan monk--
vow of silence tied
into my tongue--

opened my mouth to reveal
the twisted cables--

gazing into mirror
pink lips writhing in red string--

i recalled the shrunken 
heads in the museum--

dark thick needle
cinching skin--

where do you tie up your words?

do you send them to god
in the form of a knot?

i pretended each end 
of my altar server chord was
a head of hair-- 

a siren-- long brown
mythical maned--

i went to work--
tangling the chord
beyond recognition--

knots as fists--

pounding on the wooden church doors--

pounding on my own teeth
like draw bridges--

fists clutching in the back of my
own hair--

there i am perched on 
at the kitchen table

as my mother yanked a brush
through the thicket
of my hair-- 

tulip bulbs tangled 
at the base of my neck--

waiting for march--

cut off their necks before
the rain encourages them--

i cut off my own
neck-- 
head poised over 
the bathroom sink--

blood or milk--?

rosary beads round my neck--

my mother said they're no
supposed to be a necklace
but when i was home alone i
wore them anyway--

taking beads between
thumbs & index finger--

un-knotting a prayer 

hail mary hail mary 
the lord is with thee--

did i catch god with one
of those knots?

is he still there waiting--

gentle light coming 
in the sun room windows--

it is always spring--