hawk

there's a hawk's
nest in the attic &
our pupils dilated
into planets
in the stare
of each other's flashlights--
where did the winter
carry your bridges?
the melted snow creeks
are full of unborn frogs
waiting for spring
to warm them-- there
we are-- in clusters
of eggs-- our tiny 
embryo bodies making
orbits
inside our shells--
what kind of moons
did i walk on before
i was born?
was it a sort of honeymoon 
for myself--
did we dip our feet 
in Mediterranean ocean?
naked & sun-burned--
a red cinnamon candy
dissolving in the inevitability 
of coming alive--
i imagine i was
disappointed when i
learned it was
my time to stop exploring--
river ripetide
pulling me from
a ghost tree--
i ached with 
wanting for myself:
nomadic & unborn--
the currents were too
fast & there i was--
there i was stinging 
in window light--
sometimes my feet 
remember that wandering--
i felt it in the woods
by the creek--
the one with the limestone
kilns we used as temples
& the abandoned house 
where hawks roosted--
shrieking at our
pink skin as we put
out the fires of our
shoe laces-- 
sharpie-marker tattooed
the hips of the trees 
to mark our trails--
learned the language 
of dusk & all of it's
ambling color--
who could know where
purple is going
if left unchecked?
i think back then i
was maybe a light
shade of maroon--
back when i had no body
to worry about breaking
when i 
climbed grandfather tree 
limbs & eat handfuls
of wild berries or
maybe they were 
planets--
planets taste sweet--
not like gumballs but
like pop rocks--
like myself, i don't
know where this poem
is going-- it stepped
off the gravel trail
& found itself in
the girl memories
of autumn & broken
twigs-- in the deep girl
ankles scratched by
briers--
let's give the hawk
a name so that 
her babies will
laugh when they
learn there is something
she goes by other
than just "mother"--
i don't know
if there are hawks in
the creek but there is
one in my hawk & she is 
pacing-- flashlight
in her mouth--
scratching at the walls
of my skulls--
each talon etching 
echo-- 
i tell her she can
stay when
i really mean 
that it's time for
her to find a new 
body to build a nest
in-- i walk out
in the wilting snow
& open my mouth 
but she doesn't leave.

i've spent way too
much time in the last
few weeks refreshing 
application pages to
MFA programs
as if at 9:52pm
on a Sunday night
the selection committee 
will be making their
final decisions
clicking the send button
to welcome me
into some kind of
answer-- i started
doing it to my
email inbox too--
it's like when i was
little & first discovered
the phenomenon
of the mail--
how like magic 
the green box at
the end of the driveway
summoned
toy catelogs around
christmas & 
white envelope 
bills for mom to
stack on the kitchen
table with orphaned 
mittens & other odds
& ends--
the miracle of
a postage stamp
& it's small promises
to carry words--
the end of
my driveway is
now a computer
screen-- 
maybe
if i refresh this
page again
there will be
some email from god 
sitting there--
an attachment image
of my life all
mapped out in .jpgs--
the driveway dissolves 
into a keyboard
into a postage 
stamp stuck to the back
of my neck--
where are you
sending me? 
is god still up
at his desk?-- hunched
over a MacBook--
two finger strolling
down a list of
people like
me who write 
him
letters only
to save them as 
drafts-- if
i refresh one
more time 
will the asphlat
come back?
who is coming
with me?
the little red flag--
hand raised--
what's funny is
i don't even know
if i want to 
go to graduate school
or change cities
or have my name
on a dust cover
perching on the shelf of 
some independent book
store on a quirky 
main street--
stop lights 
key-chain swaying
in a gust of January wind--
i don't know if
i love you--
but i'm scared 
i'll punch in
the URL one more time
& i'll see myself
on the screen
at the end of my 
parent's driveway--
messy pig tails &
ripped-knee jeans
or
30 years old
on the steps of
some apartment
building in 
a city i haven't
been yet--
at first i won't
recognize him
until i notice
his black converse
& the nervous
way he pushes his
sweater sleeves
up to the elbows--
i know that
tomorrow
isn't coming
in the mail &
that waiting 
is a form of elegy
but i wish you
were here with me now  
tonight at my 
computer-- kiss
me like a postage
stamp on
my right shoulder-- 
this is a letter
for you--

body weeds

when you find your
body full of weeds
resist the urge to 
drink your father's poison
from the shed-- 
stretch your
arms high-- graze
the low hanging
branches of the 
evergreen trees--
feel your spine
fire-cracker on
the side walk--
they keep lighters
in the top drawer
next to the kebabs 
& the birthday candles--
crouch in 
the driveway with
your flick flint
& fire-- little
girl you have needles
& spines-- you 
have roots
as deep as your
own bones--
there is not process
of removal that 
will leave you 
unscathed-- 
do not blame yourself--
(as always)
blame gravity or the 
spore-breathed wind
who kissed you
with so many visitors--
kneel in
the water when your
skin needs to drink--
feel the river snakes
wriggle by you
on their bellies--
they won't bite
if you learn how
to stay still & mean it--
do not be afraid 
of the roots--
i know you feel them--
i know they knit
like your mother--
thick wool around 
arteries-- marionette
your wrists-- trust me--
the brush killer
won't save you--
nor will devouring
gravity once & for all--
we need your body 
held to soil--
we need the lush 
lawn who waits
beneath
the first snow--
we need the patience 
of your freckles
& the tenderness
of the dandelions--
if you are to survive
you have to trust them
when they tell you 
that they are flowers--
protruding
between ribs--
cracking the asphalt
of your neck--
you are going to
want to tear
yourself
apart-- uproot & 
bleed gravel--
you are going to
want to sleep on 
the floor by your parents
bed like you did when
you were young &
wrapped in fever--
this is you--
this is where your
body has grown--
when you find yourself
stranded in 
the labyrinth your
backyards & garage
doors do not cry yet--
first locate your
voice in the throats
of the morning doves--
in the start of 
the blue station wagon
in the drive way 
know that 
you are not home 
& that the weeds only
want to make you
more course & 
earthy-- less
prone to the full
threat of gravity--
hold still--
count backwards
from one hundred--
drink water
until your blood
trickles clear water--
you are such 
a bold sound of concrete
such a valorous 
attempt at 
sturdy-body--
let the weeds break you--
each fissure 
bringing chasms--
yielding breach--
so many entrance ways--
you amphitheater--
you stadium--
you bones

Hungary 

you tell me
that sometimes
you google the
immigration process
to countries whose
languages you
know you'll
never be able to learn--
you tell me 
Hungarian isn't
a romance language or
germanic-- that it's
Uralic & neither of
us know what that means
but we know we could
at least get lost
in it-- i trust
you because sometimes
i want to wipe
my body clean of
all traces of myself--
it's not that i don't
like my life--
it's that i'm curious--
i'm curious of 
millions of iterations
of my tongue?
what poetry would
i write if i
had spoken 
hungarian instead of
english?
would i have written
more about meadows
& flowers?
would i be less
infectiously 
nostalgic about
your barefoot backyard
worlds?
i'm getting us
two plane tickets
with the last money
in my bank account--
become untied with
me-- let's make
new names--
are there churches 
you want to visit
in Budapest?
let's lock arms
so we don't get
lost from each other--
i'm okay with
being no one if
you will walk with
me-- exchange
vows of silence--
i can feel the 
lights from the
széchenyi chain bridge
dripping
into the danube river--
we fall in too
& cut out our
tongues to let them
swim as fish--
we get more
& more distant from 
our old lives--
from the green mailbox
on noble street--
from the broken
blue & yellow glasses
on the red speckled
kitchen floor--
the sound of thrashing
corn melts
into water churning
around us &
when our tongues
swim back they speak
perfect hungarian--
soaked we emerge--
night is genuflecting--
it's saturday &
tomorrow we 
will have to find a church
for you--
we stop a young
couple
to ask for directions
to a hotel to
spend the night 
& they think
we belong here with
our english fed to
the water--
with the river
slicing our bodies
in half-- 
what rivers have divide
you?
where do you 
go to wash off 
the sun?
the couple gives
instructions-- 
walk up
two blocks 
& on the left 
there is a 
a step-ladder
you can take all
the way to the front
lawn of the moon--
they paused to add
oh & welcome home
welcome home 
& as we walk away 
i put my arm
around you &
say 
welcome home
welcome home
in a language  
neither of 
us will ever know 

i have been spending
a lot of time in the 
"seasonal" section
of Giant--
drenched in red &
pink  
heart shaped boxes
of chocolate--
stuffed animal hearts 
hearts warm
blood pulse their
stitched 
'i love you's
i know 
i'll say something
snarky 
about Sweaheart candies
& the romance capitalism 
complex 
but the truth is
i adore Valentines day--
i watch the other
people in the aisle
& try to imagine
who they're thinking
about while lingering
there at 6pm on 
a Thursday night 
in January-- whose
kiss are they living in?
whose love are they 
fumbling
for? 
in the form
of heart shapes that
don't even emulate 
our own muscle 
thrusting blood
down the rivers of
our veins--
dripping onto the 
linoleum floor--
it's a kind of bleeding
isn't it?
chocolate melting
in my hands
as i peruse 
all the boxes
i could give someone--
yes i'm here thinking
about you--
about how clumsy
it is to have feelings
about how 
i pressed roses in
my father's atlases
& how in 2nd grade
we had to give everyone
in our class Valentines 
but that i held
onto the ones for
my crushes a little bit
longer-- taping
the best candies to
their cut-out purple
hearts--
the girl next to
me in the aisle for
valentines-believers
is inspecting
a chocolate rose--
to leave on the kitchen
table for her
girlfriend to find when
she gets home--
a little further 
a man in a red flannel 
is holding a plush
rabbit & cat trying
to remember which 
animal his wife likes more--
i love valentines day
because it's so so
frantic-- to imperfect 
& terrifying--
make material your
feelings for someone
else-- we know
we're graceles in this
aisle together--
as graceless as we
are the first time
we discover 
our blood moving too
quickly for us
to catch--
these are the currents 
you pull in me--
the red & pink hearts--
i don't like to
buy anything for valentines 
day but i wanted you
to know how 
every time i go
to the super market 
i push my cart
down this aisle 
& meander 
in thoughts of you--
i throb--
uncoordinated 
& cumbersome--
i'm an inelegant mess--
wrap me in cellophane--
you make me 
red 
& heart-shaped 

cloud fall 

& the clouds came down as
the animals we saw in them--
hoof & claw-- 
steam & stampede--
clamor of glasses in
the cupboard-- 
i peeled open my blinds
to see
them all-- grey to white
their bodies left up
to interpretation--
you saw a dragon &
i saw the scowling face of
a teacher i had in elementary 
school-- the one who
made me sit on the
brick wall during recess--
i took inventory of
the clouds-- read their
body prophecies--
the rain is of course
coming-- balanced on
the heads of the elephants--
ripped from the ocean
in the teeth of
the mermaids-- sharp
pairing knives--
slice your strawberries
in half to make hearts--
i beat blood into my pale
palms as a promise to 
always read the clouds--
listen to their 
commotion as they 
ascend-- make stair cases
of the shingles-- slide
down lamp posts on
main street-- touch down
to earth-- a thick fog
of tails & tomorrow--
tomorrow will i get
to be a cloud-- 
i want hollow bones 
& a larger wing span--
i want to be mistaken for
a magpie & a snowy owl--
feathers of oak leaf
& snowfall--
everything is melting 
isn't it?
me & you & the
animals born 
each morning from
an unsuspecting cloud--
are we then the parents?
the guardians of
so many sets of eyes 
& hind legs setting
forth to peruse 
the dirt-- kiss mud into
water-- slip into
puddles as deep
as rivers-- 
today the clouds are
rapid-- chasing each other
home-- i follow them 
in my car until
they hide beneath
the hem of the horizon 
as the sun becomes
an oreo cookie
dunked in a clear glass
of milk--
sweet cream & crumbling--
i can taste chocolate
when we kiss-- when you 
run a hand through
my hair & realize
how volatile this
body is-- an assembly of
vapors-- yes i traded
my flesh for the 
same body as the cloud animals--
i wanted to run at
the command of
the wind-- i wanted you
to look at me &
tell me what i should
be-- a giraffe--
a blue whale-- a hand 
clutching
a silver dollar--
a plump crooked nose--
come stand outside
in the fog & the mist
& wait for me to come
down the staircase--
hair still damp from
a midnight shower--
my checkerboard boxers
all green & white & blue--
i'll stand there &
wait for you to 
make a cloud of me
all the while
the storm gathers enough
hooves pour--
kiss me when i'm grey
& illegible--
careful of what you
see in me--
i might be a snake 
or a fern tree or
simply a boy
who dissapears
on occasion into
cloud

assemble us

here,
will you 
take the instructions?
unfold-- let's read
each other like maps--
like desk drawers &
lamp lights--
i click on with
the push of a button
just like a good star--
drill gun in hand--
these bodies
are in assembly--
knees & wood floor--
i want to put
myself together
beside you-- keep
me company-- this is
a process & i'm still
learning what pieces
are missing--
what screws dropped 
from my elbows
while i was
too busy being a sofa
for bodies
to press into--
come home to me
in the ikea show room--
the faucets don't
work but that's
what we have rain for--
that's why we cut
windows with scissors--
break open
the card board ceiling--
i'll plant you a tree
on the roof top--
one that grows taller
than the sky scrapers--
one that challenges 
the glossy silver
eyes of the building
in center city--
take you shoes off
in me--
stay while--
a body is a kind of
gathering-- 
a congregation
of wood & pressure--
i've never been
one to read instructions--
i've been winging it
thus far
so that's probably 
why i have so many
handfuls of 
screws-- they're 
probably very important--
i keep them in
my pockets
in case i start to
come apart--
i want to come 
apart with you
& back together
& re-assembled into
new shapes--
watch me be water--
an end table--
a windowsill--
open me to let
in a breeze 
loud enough to knock
your mail off
the kitchen table--
i've never been
broken-- just
in assembly-- in
the process of 
finding enough
parts to be
a place i can lay myself
down again--
oh are you a ceiling
or are you a
book shelf? 
both are great 
places to sleep
when a bed is
to vast for tonight's
dream-- when you
walk me out
to my car i want 
to pull you into
the back seat--
kick off
the car roof
& look up 
towards the
night sky-- shy
in the wake of
the city lights--
we'd coax them
out with open
palms & iPhone 
flashlights-- come
home to me--
come home to
me-- 
you make my handfuls 
of screws
melt like the snow--
fold the instructions
into a paper
airplane--
come visit 
on that gust 
still breathing
in your open
window-- 

on emptying the ocean 

i thought i could see
the ocean falling off
the side of earth--
waterfall into space--
faucet pouring from the
forehead of the sun--
these are bullet holes--
these are salt-water
wounds-- these are
the stories we will
tell the soil when
the drought is here
& we are all
dry earth--
we'll start with 
sand box shovels & 
blue pales-- 
brother, oh brother
come down with me 
where the shore is
the crooked smirk  
of god-- laughing
at the absurdity
of two young boys
who want to empty
the ocean-- boulders
for teeth-- 
trust only
the tide pools-- 
the star fish pushing
debris through their
lips--
crack conch shells--
use sand dollars 
as prayer beads--
one handful
at a time--  that's
how you dismantle 
an ocean-- 
how you become
something vast--
like most humans
i think about
the ocean & the stars
too much--
it's a vague
attempt at augmentation--
diffusing into space--
let me be plankton 
or pollen--
you have
to commit to the 
whole thing--
starting here at the 
atlantic & moving on 
to the mediterranean--
the pacific--
all oceans are the
ocean are the 
rivers & have been
snow-- yes yes there's
blood that has been
snow
but if we pour out
the oceans 
the boats will have
to learn how to 
fly & maybe just maybe 
the moon will find
something more
productive to do
then tousling the
waves every single 
day-- maybe she'll
take up quilting or
piano-- playing
the knuckles of
buildings-- minor
key mother--
this will of course
take awhile &
i don't expect you
to stay with me--
cup your hands
& take yourself
apart in puddles
of water--
let's make marshes--
splash in the blue
rivers of our
own blood-- is
that the tigris
& the euphrates 
painting our arms
in reeds & papyrus?
is this were we first
met water & where
we decided to
take it apart?
bring your gallon
jugs & your 
blue recycling barrels 
i want to make raw
the ocean floor--
parched ship wrecks &
tired giant squids 
strewn out like
party streamers--
schools of tuna 
attempting to inhale
air-- this is for
their own good--
for the water
to sink back into
the dirt-- back into
our skin-- let us
be oceans without
them-- without 
the moon tugging at
us with her 
needle & thread--
let us bring our
penance to
the tide pools 
where our seven-year-old
bodies will finally
go to sleep & 
be mischievous--
bring driftwood
& sunday morning
church bells-- cracked
as they speak--
we will stand at the  
edge & say 
we have
done it-- we have
done it-- we 
have spilled the 
whole ocean
with our hands--

a plethora of birds

oh disastrous me--
milk chocolate melting
pocket full--
gold coin & tin foil teeth--

there are more & more
birds this year i've
noticed-- they 
gossip in the bamboo--

they eat the snow when
we're asleep-- mouths of white 
nameless & shadowed--
they are not a species

but rather they are 
a human emotion-- the 
feeling of being watched--
manifest the flock--

the cacophony of feather
& treacherous bodies--
do you trust the surface
of your skin?

it was me-- i am
the boy who swallows birds--
they come without petition--
perch on my wrists--

i'm tired of asking
other people if they're
ready to accept me--
if they're ready to read  

the parable of my bones 
if they're scared of needles--
if they can see the red
threads stitching my

rib cage from swinging open--
oh, mother, your son is 
scared of birds-- his 
storm is red & he has

tattooed his apologies 
onto his bones too many time-- 
they bell ring with your church--
your son in full of talon

& black beak-- hollowing
himself out like a pumpkin
so that a candle can
rest in his throat--

this is me-- this is me 
watching my own extinction--
like a fairy what is 
a boy who is un-believed ?

if i eat the birds will
they stop calling me that name?
is there enough
room inside myself 

to hold that kind of pain?
there's more & more--
yesterday they followed me
back to my front porch--

tearing the telephone
wires out from the clouds--
sparks falling around me--
the world ends so monstrously 

frequently-- i'm quite used to it-- 
i light candles-- 
i ignore the stories--
clutch like seeds 

oh sometimes i fantasize
about you holding back 
my hair while i kneel--
regurgitating this ache

bird by bird by bird --
that's how you said we
would survive-- one
wing at a time--

i'm so so tired--
i'm so so full

you help extract them 
from my lips-- dry from
feathers-- spitting 
blood & knees--

you tell me you 
trust me-- you tell 
me there are no birds
where we are going--

in this story
you shut the windows 
& we eat peppermint 
pinwheels to ease the sting

left in our mouths--
you open the medicine
cabinet & let
me sleep inside--

you do not tell anyone
you have a son-- 
you will tell the neighbors
that your daughter

swallowed a plethora 
of birds-- died wearing 
tin foil teeth & 
pockets to deep for us

to reach into

on the persistent desire to be a red balloon  

i blew my soul
into a red balloon--
it hardly fit--
like a jostling
corridor or
city avenue--
shoulder nudge
shoulder--
i stepped
on my own feet & 
breath by breath
i forced myself
inside-- all my air--
pillow thoughts &
alphabets
exhaled between
my lips & into
the illusion of
rubber-- 
the cavernous quiet
of the balloon--
i had wanted to
feel dark &
quiet-- like walking
back into an 
egg shell-- cracked
beneath bare feet--
the kitchen is
full of wooden
spoon & whisks  
& we keep
the leftover 
birthday
balloon in 
the top drawer 
next to the matches--
upon the windows
so i can set out--
if you cannot
trust
the wind then
what are you doing
here? where
do you put your
soul when you
are tired &
wanting refuge?
mine doesn't
fit in coat pockets
anymore-- eager 
for altitude--
does you soul climb
ladders if
left unattended?
mine does--
like a moth desperate
to fly deeper
into a sun-- 
to dip into light
i too have a body 
that craves 
height-- 
here i go-- 
ribbon tied neck--
tail whipping--
children pointing
at the balloon
gone astray--
bright against 
the greyish blue
afternoon &
soon the sunset will
wash all of
our feet
with her hair--
teach us to love
bruising &
take inventory
of our orange scars--
if you see
me don't say 
any prayers-- i'm
sneaking up
into heaven
with my warm-breathing
soul-- 
these are the acrobatics 
of fate--
if you believe 
in that sort of
thing-- i don't
i  just know that 
whatever heaven
is that it must
be somewhere
beyond the clouds
& that it is probably
best reached by
absurd acts
of trust such
as letting go
of yourself
in the form of 
an old birthday 
balloon left over
from when you turned
7 & everyone wore
party hats 
& you licked 
frosting roses from
the corners of
sheet cake--
who is to say
that the back yard
is no a sheet cake 
& you just haven't
checked? 
my hands are sticky
from all this
sugar-- all
these frosting
spoons & whisks 
in the kitchen--
steal yourself
a fist of
utensils--
i am smart
enough to know
heaven will
not be all it's
cracked up to be--
that's why i'm
coming prepared
with cooking
implements & a sense 
of disappointment--
i have found 
for me at least
it is better
to embrace 
worse-case-scenarios--
kiss your unhappy
endings & dog ear
pages when you're not
ready to read
anymore-- 
for now i'll be
the red balloon--
the one children
point at-- reaching
casually towards
even though
i am already 
so so 
catastrophically 
unbound--
their parents
will open the 
top kitchen drawers--
pass fingers
over their own
unused balloons
& consider 
if they could
exhale themselves
into the same
small quiet
space--
come up here--
what would it
take for you to
emanate yourself?
bruised &
beautiful