marrow

last night
i became a museum--
lingering by
the window & wondering
where cars could
be driving to at 1am
i let them start--
the builders in their
blue overalls--
no one asked if 
i was ready--
it was assumed--
i extended my arms 
for them to work--
building me brick
walls & a little
japanese rock garden--
bamboo wind chimes-- 
modern-art statues 
of green metal &
mischievous sliver--
i love them because
they don't have to 
resemble
anything-- when i 
was little my
uncle would laugh
at the abstract--
the canvas of circles
& shapes--
telling me that art 
can't just be
anything-- 
i want all of 
those paintings
inside of me-- the 
undecipherable-- 
when i was little
at the reading museum 
i fell in love
with paint splatter--
found dragon-wings
in the splashes
& when i rained 
it came down
in jackson pollock's
palette-- my skin
a kind of pinkish canvas
& now a museum--
they put in a revolving
door & an entrance
with pillars--
they drape tarps over
statues as they haul
them inside--
i wanted to swallow
all the pinned butterflies--
all the skeletons
of owls-- renoirs &
monets-- keith harring's
dancing men laughing
with them bodies
down my hallways--
bring them in--
i didn't want
any empty walls--
art kind of keeps me
company--
laying here-- feeling
the frames nailed to
the inside of my
ribs-- lining
the corridors
of my radius-- 
the statues poised 
in my pelvis--
if you feel alone
come visit me here--
keep yourself company
with brush stroke &
plaster mold--
i've made myself
a museum for you--
there are benches to
sit on & 
if you are tired
you can always curl
up sideways & sleep--
if you find the need
to pray that's what my
eyes are for--
their stained glass
glow-- the piano keys
of my crooked teeth--
this is a replica 
of a cathedral
in france where god
would probably live
if he was an artist--
the doors are open--
check your coats--
hang them on each
of my fingers--
take a number from
my tongue--
i'll keep quiet so
the art can be louder--
so you can hear 
your own foot steps
following you--
i hope you're one
of those wonderful
people who doesn't read 
the descriptions
with the paintings--
just walking along
& stepping timidly
into each new world
like a puddle of
oils--
please touch 
everything--
feel the thick
lines of degas thrashing
trees & 
spiral with
van gogh as he manages
to paint the wind--
when you are
down feel free
to get lots in 
the gardens--
there here so you'll
stay longer--
oh who would
have thought that
all i had wanted 
was to be a museum--
your foot steps--
your pauses--
your excited 
silences a kind
of euphoria--
pacing the marrow
of my bones--
you would make
such a nice statue
you know that?

passport

i would probably
write better poetry if
i traveled--
you told me
about the trains 
in europe-- about
the view out the window
on the ride across
the countryside of
paris 
& the calliope 
of voices
filling the car-- 
french &
italian words 
thick in the air--
i dated an italian boy
for too long but
all i know about
the language is that
the word 'zingarella' 
means some sort
of wandering girl--
barefoot & sometimes
she dances--
i'm smiling because
he called me that 
& for a wandering
girl i haven't gone
very far have i?
i don't have a passport--
i just have
my legs & an old car
that has trouble
starting in the cold--
i should make
my own passport--
take scissors
to the morning 
paper-- a collage of
headlines & the 
names from the obituaries
glued together to
make a face--
i could use my pressed
roses from prom
that still smell
like hairspray &
black high heels--
paste them along 
the borders-- 
what else then?
would a sea shell be
too much?
would it remind me
of too much
of chingoteague?
where my father
taught me how
to catch a snapping
turtle by the tail
& where we
kissed on a dock--
let our feet dangle--
oh or was that maine?
i'm still sorry 
for the lobster we
ate-- i think
of him still--red &
afraid-- water heating
around him--
let's go back to
that train in europe--
the one you told me
about-- 
i think i would
definitely 
want to be there
alone but only
so that i could 
think about him
wistfully-- 
there is a certain degree
of pleasure
that exists 
only from being
away from someone--
when i cross
the border into 
spain they will probably
scour at my 
passport-- the wilting
flowers-- the black
& white newsprint
face-- the seashells 
protruding--
they will blink
& shrug though &
let me past &
i might write a poem
later about
the ridiculous
thrill of boarders
like when we drove
down to the ocean 
& shouted
out the windows
of my mother's
blue station wagon 
at the sign that told
us we were entering
new jersey--
i promise you i
do a lot of wandering 
even when it's
too cold for bare feet--
i wish there was
a word for
the boy who likes
to wander--
sometimes when
i fall asleep
i stand up
from my body--
passport in hand
& i try to walk
to him--
street light by
street light--
all the way down
the highway
into
city-- crawl
in bed next to
him & say that
i want to 
get lost somewhere
together--
i wake up in
my body again--
barefoot-- passport
in hand--
the train is headed 
for madrid--
passing through
barcelona
but only briefly 

all fathers 

all fathers take
their sons to fish in me--
what else is 
an hourglass
for?
blue gills & sulking
bass left over
from the spring
fishing derbies--
they're
kneeling on my banks
while the ducks leave
their feathers
like apologies-- 
on occasion i have
the honor of waking up
as the lake
in fleet wood park--
the one where
the bullfrogs are burrowed
deep in the mud 
by the first frost--
the one who wraps
herself in thick 
green algae come june--
today in my cracked
dinner plate finger nails 
i felt boys tremble
on my rocks--
peering in-- trying
to see themselves--
greeting their own
ghosts surfacing
in my face
balancing--
i keep hoping they'll
fall in & i'll
lift them
with both my arms 
back to the air--
it is january so
the park is empty &
my cheek-bones frozen 
over-- 
cataract-eyed  
& sleepy i let
the feeble skeleton
of the sun press
against me--
is this the feeling 
of being forgotten?
the gradual
shattering of
nails & teeth--
am i becoming a sandbox?
tumbling through
the world's soft
pink fingers--
i never did learn 
to cartwheel but
watch me somersault-- 
is this 
the hardening of
my water into slate?
there we are--
i can see us
my father & i &
billy on crooked-wooden
bench april--
fish hooks snagging 
worms-- billy with
a bag full of potato
rolls to toss
to ducks--
my father's
appetite for silence
brings a hush 
over the trees 
as they hold in another
sigh-- 
casting out-- 
hooks
dipping into my
skin-- i am so lucky
to be able
to live
a second life 
as quiet water-- 
rewind my own knees--
my own father's 
thick hands--
i am 
(of course)
careful not to
laugh so they don't
fall in 
i dream of 
what it would feel like
to have them swim
in me-- 
their memories
as air bubbles--
their wet shoes &
baseball caps--
reaching into me
with 
invisible fish lines
we make our own
telephone
wires to speak--
finger on
the line-- they
hear me breathing
in the ripple 
of the surface--
often i am mistaken
for a fish on
the line--
i can't help it--
i am so eager 
for them to be
here--  
but it is january
& i am tired 
& there are
foot prints in
the sandbox
from feral cats 
& the occasional
brother--
passing through
in blue 
sandals--
i only wish sometimes
that
the hooks do something
other than just
pass through me--
i miss the 
pain of skin--
the audacity of
wearing
illegible skin
i go back here when i
feel like there's
no where left--
when i want
to feel simple again--
squish potato
rolls between my
fingers &
cast out
again & again--
take your sons
to fish in me--
reel in my body--
the blue-lipped
boy who tried
so hard to 
grow gills &
somehow became
an unassuming
man-made lake 
for everyone's father
to teach them how
to fish

i'm imagining 
you reading this
on the bus-- head 
against the window
while the city plays
itself like film reel--
the snow is melting
& i'm right there
with it--
when i started my
car last night 
it breathed fog
from its mouth
like a dragon--
there are so many
dragons out
there tonight--
shaking street salt
off their bones--
this poem is crawling
into bed with you--
this poem is
making too many promises
this poem is me
sitting across
from you on the bus
without knowing 
it-- our bodies--
reject gravity
& determine
to meet-- oh
somewhere you 
are off being
soft without me--
i'll show you
how i melt--
i'll show you 
how an object
enters the atmosphere--
have i told
you how much 
i love sidewalk chalk
or about how
sometimes
i believe
the moon is following
me-- moving
clouds
to peer down 
at my queer body 
fishing for
broken headlights--
maybe i'm right
& maybe you 
will read this
poem on a bus--
i am a radio
tower-- blinking
red with 
anticipation--
my hands are
cold & waiting
to turn over
stones under your
skin-- if the power
goes out
we can make mischief--
cut free the 
stars so
they can live out
their august
dreams of 
being fire flies
even if only
for a night--

9 degrees
outside-- wind 
striking matches
on my red face--
punishing us 
for holding hands 
while she is so
vast & cold & lonely--
tonight i envy the 
weather of Pennsylvania--
how unforgivingly 
volatile she lives--
inflicting all kind
of sadness--
i think of how
winter has a way 
of making me want
to be smaller
& maybe it's because
i'm discovering
the thinness of
my own skin--
my own body a piece
of orbit--
there must 
(of course)
be smaller galaxies
to live in--
i opened the door
of my closet to find
a spiral one had 
taken shelter there--
ripping my sweaters 
from their hangers--
eating left socks &
snapping my candles--
clumsy playing with
matches--
i tell him 
he can stay as long
as he doesn't
get bigger-- as
long as he 
remains small 
enough to sleep
in my palm--
& he promises &
i know he's lying--
we are all so incapable
of stillness--
even now i can
hear the moan
of the door frame 
as he tugs at the hinges--
hungry for
metal nails & 
brass nobs-- 
he is so young but
tonight
he will grow 
too large for 
my ceiling--
i ask him if
i can try it-- if 
i can try life as
a tiny comet
or meteor or moon
& he laughs
because we both
know it would
never work--
he knots my socks
before
he leaves out
the windows in
a cascade of frost
& for a moment
i leave the
windows open to
let the largeness of
the house breathe--
i yawn too--
i wonder how
many suns there
are caught
in my teeth--
i want to let
myself live
on smaller galaxies 
on nights
like this-- 
orbit quickly--
watch the sun
leap frog
from
horizon to horizon--
blink nights
away--
pirouette--
walk outside
in cold january
so the weather 
can be less alone-- 

chandelier street light dream

this is a sleepless poem--
a mouth kissed hungry full
of questions-- 
what dreams do you 
remember when you are
alone? 
the ones vivid
enough to walk back to?
does your story have
a prologue-- 
an author's note?
a dedication page?
oh if we were books
this would be so simple--
spine to spine on
a shelf-- 
book mark me-- 
i don't number 
my pages-- i have
an index made of 
smooth stones--
right now my heart is 
left with your foot
prints-- you pace the
ceilings of my eyelids--
i grip a glass chandelier 
in my teeth-- faint clink
of crystal on crystal--
you had to have
know you were laying
yourself down into
a poem being so
damn beautiful--
here alone i think
about everything i 
want to know about you--
how would you 
describe the taste
of snow?
when was the last
time you stood ankle-deep
in water?
do you still believe 
in the ocean?
i'm filling the planets
with air again at the 
gas station
up the street from 
my house-- 
they've been shrinking-- 
i can't
stop them from turning
back into pennies--  
oxidizing on our sidewalks--
let's be teal & wild--
let's break windows
with baseballs--
let's tear up
the floor boards
to make a campfire--
steal the night sky
for a tent-- 
shadow puppet
me into a parable--
the parable of the boy
turned into
a statue in the
frozen heat of january--
when was the last time
you let your heart
become a storm cloud?
do you have thunder in you?
a blizzard? the 
audacious hum of sleet?
when i come down
i fall all at once--
a summer bass drum--
cymbal-tongued--
have i told you about
how much i used to sing
in the shower
& how i hid bubble gum
beneath my pillow?
next time i see
you i hope i get
to hold you longer--
open umbrellas
in your rib cage--
there are so many eyes
in this storm i forget
that somewhere again it
is raining-- i have
a pocket full of 
change that was once
all the planets
in the solar system--
let's meet on mars--
red & loud--
i can buy you 
a parking meter,
a 23 hour day, &
every street lamp
on your block to kiss
under-- 
i haven't opened
your medicine
cabinet but i assume
that's where you keep
your constellations--
the sky tucked
behind your reflection--
next time you go
to sleep take
a handful of dimes--
spend me on a highway--
oh if my hair
was long again i could
follow it home--
there are beds somewhere
on the moon you know
& maybe even 
a nightlight?
what i mean to say
is i'm awake &
it's too late
to un-write this
poem i've been living
it's about meeting you &
i can't decide if
you're meant
to read it yet--
we happen in fragments--
in rear view mirrors--
parallel parked
on a stop sign--
this city was
a chandelier--
laughing as 
i left it-- 
does your mouth
write poems without you?
do you think of
holding me like
i think 
of holding you?

werewolf: an origin story

first kiss--
first hand slide down
the back of my jeans--
first boy who
left his shadow 
plastered on
brick walls--
oh, is there always a first
of everything?
a first human & egret 
& blue whale?
each a handfuls of bones 
finding each other--
following sinews &
together
taking a deep ragged
breath-- jaws 
snatching a fist
of air--
all the animals
birth from the
collaboration 
of carbon--
born from god's
great wooden spoon--
who stirred you?
measured you 
out into the metal
mixing bowl--
i remember the small 
soft hands of my 
mother as she kneaded
down dough on the floured
counter top--
let the yeast inhale--
taller & taller
i think werewolves
of are different--
less of a species
& more a kind of 
organ-- a kind
of midnight--
he had a way
of chewing me
when we kissed--
a way of breaking
me down to 
bite-sized pieces--
horderves--
my bones were
a bag of marbles
& in my room 
was the first place
i felt the howl--
starting
beneath the skin-- 
a sort
of quake in each
hair follicle--
an involuntary 
refusal of silence--
ripped open my lips--
howling till
my windows shattered
& the moon too
was an open mouth
biting between
hot hot stars--
spitting them
out as fire--
once this began
i could feel
them stalking 
inside him-- 
their yellow eyes
& thick thick 
brown fur--
they were there
in the way he 
grabbed me by
a handful of hair--
in his parasitic
kisses across
my neck & the 
heavy animal
smell of his bare
body-- 
our sweat in the summer
was a kind of
rain-- in it
thunder & the 
baying of dormant fur--
i could see
his canines only
as white flashes
as he came up for
air from inside me--
this is in fact
a first love poem--
this is in fact about
the betrayal 
of our own skin
& the mischievous
laugh of full moons
& the clawing
that paced
until they scratched 
open our chests--
there was a strength
to his grip
that was at times
inhuman & 
at times gentle
& unknowing--
i let my body
fade into a comma--
a coiled pause
on the floor of
a bed room 
no longer my own--
i love my werewolf--
i love how she 
taught me 
how to drink 
the white milk
of the moon--
shouted my
skin monstrous 
& unafraid--
a kind of howl
that snapped
the necks of
all the trees he
had ever made me
fuck him under--
& still when
i feel small
sometimes i howl--
shake the earth
just enough
to remind myself
how loud my body
is-- oh this
is a story about
how monstorous
you are--
this is a story
about the moon
& a story 
about watching for
the flash of
his sharp canines--
eyes yellow
as candles

the taste of snow

being snowed in
alone makes
me think of
everyone you
could//should
be snowed in
with-- 
there you are,
sitting on
the kitchen counter
while i chop 
yellow & red cherry
tomatoes-- there
you are again
standing on
the ceiling-- you
always were the type
to laugh a gravity--
i'll be down here--
pacing down
the spines of
these books--
ricochet of
my own thoughts
off the white walls--
it was subtle 
but the house itself
was my body &
your body &
the knees of my
grandmothers--
the rear view mirror
of blue jeep that
feel off years ago--
i opened the bathroom
window to feel
the brisk 
blush of air as 
the foundation
left earth--
look what you've done--
you've gone & 
un-tethered us--
no creek or snap
of pipes-- this is
a certain type
of being alone--
this is the kind of  
alone where the faucets
start to 
know your name
& the shower head
bleeds meteors--
hot fire rocks down
the drain--
i wash myself
in comets that leave
bruises on my
back-- you come
in with me & push
me against the 
misty wall--
bite my neck
like licorice rope--
i need to know
if you were here
tonight or 
if i conjured you
from my own loneliness--
if you were really 
there-- meandering
across the ceiling--
pointing out
the spider webs
full of dried
moths-- 
i have been thinking
about how 
this snow changes 
me-- the kind
of terrified nostalgia--
i see myself
as a little girl
on all fours crawling
across
the backyard--
i am also a fox  
or a wolf--
i see myself
building a snowman
for a father--
he has one course  
red mitten
& a fleece scarf--
he spits out bottle
caps that get lost
in the driveway--
she eats snow
from her bare pink
hands-- like cotton
candy & from
the window
i imitate her--
taste steel 
& aluminum foil--
was that you on
the third floor?
were you walking 
back & forth?
come down here
& wrap yourself
in covers with
me-- we don't 
have to remember who
we are to each other--
we'll swallow
snow & watch
ourselves
becoming 
more alone as
the window 
peels off our
front step--
oh how vivid
the sun will look
when she finds her
way out from
behind the 
grey-- i hope
you're here
when i wake up-- 
whoever you are

trust 

i woke up
in the dark cold
of the freezer--
this will preserve
things-- down
here time moves
slower-- between
the raw
chicken thighs
& shoe-string potatoes
i turn over--
last night 
i saw they
were calling for
snow & i thought
i could think
my way out of it--
thought that maybe
there was some
way i could
prevent
the inevitable
freezer door
from
shutting on my house--
prevent this stillness
in my body--
i'm terrified  
most by snow's promise
of early silence--
of immobility &
patience--
how dare a sky
be so patient for
me-- 
i drew
a thermostat 
in the driveway
& told it to
be summer--
shouted into
the milky grey
clouds to thunder--
to pour hot steam--
under my covers 
i pictured
the heat 
reverberating
off the sidewalk from
a distance--
as if i alone
could control
the arrival of
the a season &
somewhere i
felt spring
stir beneath 
the layers of
white sheets--
mouth full of
bulbs & rain--
she thought
i was amusing--
the tiny mortal
boy on the back
stoop-- rubbing
his hands together 
& stuffing them
into his pockets--
nose & cheeks
a dull gala-apple
red--
i think heaven
is certainly
made of snow--
that kind of
light snow
that is so 
wild that 
it doesn't even
stick to your skin--
blows around
like sand dunes
or pollen--
the windows
bloom with 
snow angle
kisses--
i do enjoy the
morning--
the holy morning
before the snow
blowers start
chewing
into our muscles--
the time
when time moves
so slowly that
the snow simply
hangs in the air--
where i stare up
from where 
i lay & wait
for someone
to open the
freezer door
so that the light will
turn on--
Billy is probably
going
to make those
yellowish frozen
waffles--
unknowingly he
may push me aside
to grab them--
only to
shut the door again
& i'll be here
in the intimate
dark--
believing
down through
layers of
white-- burrying
myself beside
the brisk
body of spring--
she kisses
my throat
full of
salt-- her teeth
yellow from
daffodils--
beneath my
boots the driveway
is gritty
from rock salt--
i melt down
to my knees--
to my hips--
past my forehead--
oh if only
i could have talked
the sky out of this--
instead i'll lay
here in bed--
packed in ice--
preserved--
safe from 
the nasty tongues
of time--
blue & reptilian--
do you trust
the snow?
i think i do--
at least i'm trying--

if i inject
 enough air
 into my veins
 will i float?
 rise like a
 tired balloon to
 the ceiling of
 my bed room--
 drift to
 the corner
 where the spiders
 build their
 summer homes--
 while i sat
 on the examination
 table--
 feeling like
 a slice of
 deli turkey
 with the crunch
 of wax paper
 beneath me--
 the doctor
 explained
 that i must
 be careful
 to get out
 the air bubbles
 in the needle--
 it's terrifying
 really--
 how less
 than a breath
 worth of
 air causes
 embolism-- death
 by silent--
 hapless air--
 pink bubble
 bath-- blooming
 behind
 my eyes-- i
 open my mouth
 to follow
 the bubbles
 upwards--
 chase them into
 the sun--
 my blood
 boiling into
 steam--
 a red mist
 like the chalky
 lips of mars--
 i leave
 kisses
 on the back of
 alcohol swabs--
 wipe
 away the blood
 from the needle--
 if i die
 like this
 at least
 i'll be lighter--
 at least
 i'll finally
 prove
 the moon &
 the sun are
 nothing more
 than pocket
 change--