someone 

my thighs
are getting thicker--
maybe it's how
long i've sat 
at my desk or
maybe i'm becoming
a tree trunk--
veins
thickening into bark--
it's been too
long since
i caressed the torso
of a tree-- 
drew my finger
across the divets
that make up
her body-- the road
map for the forest
wrapped around
her rings-- grow
halos inside
your limbs like 
the oak tree-- 
i lost my leaves
dramatically 
in november with
the rest of them--
tell me who do
you become
to escape?
i often think
about who i would
have been if 
i would have somehow
ran away to
the city-- some big
city
with enough lights 
to make up
for the dulled 
night sky--
you of course
tell me you'll 
run away to
the seminary--
i can see you in
your cassock
& wooden cross--
we can't hide 
from the thickenning
of our own blood--
of course we can
make up stories--
right now
i'm making up
a story about 
a family
painting 
birdhouses
& hanging them 
from my earlobes--
maybe cardinals 
will nest here or
blue jays--
maybe here
at my desk
i will grow so
immense 
that i break through
the roof with
the growth
of my limbs--
oh the house will
be cold--
do trees shiver 
or is that just the 
wind?
my point is that
i need to
write this poem
while i still 
can-- i need to
tell you 
that there is no
such thing
as a "real you"
i am just as
much the country
girl who ran away--
neon-souled 
to a big city
& slept on 
a park bench 
as i am the boy
who feels his
body becoming 
a broad & course
sycamore--
feel free to sit
under me & pray
the rosary or
have a picnic--
fall in love with
your own vast arms--
the rings 
inside your
chest-- haunting
yourself with
years--
the callouses 
on your finger--
tips from walking 
a bass line--
sadly
you are uncapable
of being
anyone but yourself--
oh my desk chair
is a bird house
or maybe a 
bench where
i wait for
the septa bus--
don't worry i'm 
not leaving--
one of me is just
thinking about
the view
out the window 
as buildings
break 
into a sprint
& i fall asleep--
face against 
to the window--
breath making
fog--
& there i was
again--
hair full of
cherry blossoms--
catch them--
they'll melt
in your mouth
or is that snow? 
what i'm saying
is that you
can't really escape
becoming 
someone--
what i'm saying
is take
this opportunity 
to be everyone
& when you're done
come back here--
sit beneath
my trunk &
tell me 
tell me
tell me
all about it

2 minutes 

dad tells
me the clock in
our red van 
is 1 hour & 17 minutes 
fast-- 

fierce & digital
green 
the confused numbers
spill themselves
boldly like 
bible verse suggestions--

psalms of the 
back roads where
deers eyes becomes
silver dollars 
in headlights--

he says he's been 
trying to change 
the time-- make it
right but that
he can't find the reset 
button-- 

he probes 
at the clock's
face with his
plastic
finger nails--
tells me to give
it a try

i have a love 
for clocks who
tell white
lies--  

for clocks who
hold still--
pondering a moment--
9:52
8:11
7:24
the times held
holy by
the black hands
of clocks on
the first floor
classrooms--

i love 
the uncertainty
for so much
of my life i 
am more than obsessed
with the words of
clocks--

7:55 wake up
9:00 run
9: 30 run faster 
11:00 coffee
12:30 breakfast 
4:00 eat an apple 
7:01 when i can
eat dinner 
& so on-- 
i traded my god
for the order 
of numbers
for the promise
of time

so i relish 
when the clocks
fail me--

when they laugh
when they stare bold
& untrue

at work 
the clock is 
two minutes fast 
& in military time 

as night comes
earlier & earlier
& the shadows
no longer
cast people

i find myself
walking in that
in-congruent space--

in the gap
between the 
true time & the 
red numbers 
on the counter--

the air is different
here-- less tense--
unafraid--
bold & frozen
wild--

i want to live
here where time
is too busy quarreling
with itself 
to notice me 
being a late body-- 

i walk two minutes 
wide-- leave my
seat-- slip 
into a myriad of
darkness--i cut
across
the snowy field

instead of taking
the pathway home--

when i reach
my room
i re-wind all
my pocket watches--

set three loud
alarms on my phone
(a sort of prayer)

let me wake up
on time-- on time
on a time

oh really if
i could i would
wake up back
in that space

the gap between
your arms &
my psalms-- 

my shadows
cast a body until
i turn off
the over head light  

then i am there--
listening
to the soft
ticking-- 

counting the hours
my body will soon
live unobstructed  
& sovereign 

these are the
mornings when
cold takes on
a body & follows
me home inside
the door--
crawling into 
bed next
to me-- playfully 
bites my ear-- the
cold is a terrible flirt--
presses hands
on the small of
my back until 
he's wearing
my body as his own--
laying here
i think of myself
as a wonton
or a pot-sticker--
or a pirogue
doughy blankets
enveloping me--
seal me with 
steam--
when i was
eight i would
eat deconstructed--
scrape the 
potatoes or 
pork filling from
their casing--
place myself
inside & reseal 
them--
with a few
table
spoons of water
or a paper
towel the
microwave 
can give birth 
to anything &
there i 
put myself
for 30seconds-
1 minute-- watching
the cold
exorcised from 
skin--
here in my
blankets--
resisting
being
born into 
another year
still so cold--
i'm not so much
afraid
of changing 
as i am afraid 
that it will
hurt & that 
i won't know
how much it 
hurt until
i look back--
head beneath
the covers--
hot holy water
wrinkling
my flesh--
the cold will
of course
coarse himself
inside-- 
open the windows
a crack when i'm
not careful--
i poke today
with a fork--
perch on
my wooden desk
chair--
burst blood
vessels-- 
fireworks
on my neck--
the year
is new--  

tree bone 

i make my
bed every morning
at 7:55 by
tossing my beige blanket
until it hangs even--
resist gravity
who tells me to
wrap myself
up-- lately i want
to sleep forever
where it's warm
where no one
can see my bones
& outside of
course
there's the trees
being so bold
as to wear their
nakedness-- their 
black bones shivering
in the dull sunrise--
i keep the blinds 
drawn but
i know they're 
out there--
caressing
each other's fingers--
numbly feeling
for clouds--
soon i will
walk out the front
door to admire
them-- 
eyes watering
from the mischeif
of the wind--
carpals snapping
beneath
my grey &
green sneakers--
how brittle
are my bones
in winter?
how brave & frivolous 
are the trees
to put on this
show-- 
there was of
course one
point in the
seventh grade
where they made us
label 
all the bones
in the human body
& i remember very
little--
i'm haunted
by the memory 
of blank flash cards
& beautiful 
location-less bone-words
somewhere these
trees have fibulas--
they have a pelvis
to sit on--
a broken patella--
a clavicle
bruised from 
bird kisses--
i joke with myself
that maybe
this time next year 
i'll move away to
somewhere 
not so cold in
the winter--
like the blue jays
-- i boast
to the geese 
that i'm flying
south this year--
that i'm sick
of getting naked
with the trees--
of course they'll
hook & laugh 
because they
know i'm too
tired
to fly that far
if i wanted to--
you will always
have a stubborn
admiration for
the place 
where you were born--
wrapping a blanket
around myself
i peak behind
the blinds--
see the trees
femur deep in 
powdery snow--
radius balancing
the hestitant
sun-- she peers
in on them
all in their
waltz as they
slow after
a passing breeze--
we blink &
i feel the next
gust shake 
me-- skull
swallowing air--
where are my
leaves?
wrap me in
blankets, lovers--
pick up my bones
& use them 
for fire wood
beneath 
the bed frame--
turn on the over head
light-- write
tree-bone poetry--
i will 
tell the geese 
i am already
gone 

to be honest
i didn't really know
what i wanted to write
a poem about &
i don't have
the patience for
a sonnet or 
some carefully executed
series of quatrains--
i like to write
like a spilled
bowl of cheerios--
like a smudged 
window--
like a handful of
bird seed--
i don't
want to peel
off band aides
today & write
about how 
my eating disorder
feels like a damp 
card board box 
i live in or
how the scars on
my forearms
stopped healing or
wanting
wanting
wanting
for people
to see me as
the boy i am--
no i want
to write about 
my car not
starting this morning
& how
i thought
if i kept
turning the key
that it would awaken
something
inside the engine--
some sort of final
spark & 
the car would 
sputter & shiver
& we would stumble
out
of the driveway
as we always do--
i got out to look
at her--
tears turning
to icicles
on her chin--
i kept twisting
& twisting--
hands turning
statue because i'm
too stubborn
to wear any damn 
gloves--
with each forced
turn of the key
she choked
less & less
until the dashboard
was dark & 
i was there gripping
the cold
steering wheel--
mirror fogging
from my anxious
breath-- 
i said
this is when 
the car starts--
this is when
the car is supposed
to start--
she couldn't leave
me-- this was
when she was 
supposed 
to wake up--
this was when 
she
was supposed 
the get on
her knees &
inhale
deep the unforgiving
frost--
my car has
been a sort of
lover to me-- 
we hold both
hands when 
i'm too nervous
to sleep-- 
up the street--
linger
in the planetary 
glow of the stop light
on mulhenberg drive--
park
at the back of the
lot where other
cars won't see
me lay down
in the back seat
among used books
& a blue broom
i use to wipe
the snow
off the windows--
i guess
i did have something
to write a poem
about--
i have so many
little things like
that--
you know i don't
actually have a single
clue what i'm going
to do today 
& it's the new year--
it's terrifying
& my car
is dead in
the driveway &
the only
place i can think
to go is
my parents house--
not because i actually
want to be there 
but because 
i have this
fantasy each
time i drive there
that this will
be the time that every-
thing feels right
like it only
ever will in 
a smudgy memory
that probably never 
actually happened--
when i don't feel
so sad there--
i said
maybe this year
we could try
my name & my
pronouns--
it's exhausting
to ask--
i don't really
know how many
more times
i will have
the courage
to-- 
breath 
on the back 
window--
i don't know
what this poem
is about--



 

running water

i have to 
confess that
i leave the
water running when
i get ready by
the bathroom mirror--
the quiet hush keeps
me company-- comforts
me-- i have never
seen a real 
waterfall but i assume
it is something like
this-- i practice
my voice in 
the mirror-- 
bathrooms were designed
to reflect voices--
when there's no one
else at my house
i can say anything--
i say i my name--
taste testing it's 
nuances-- i sing
fragments of songs--
sometimes hymns--
that's the thing
about being
once catholic--
you're never 
actually ONCE
catholic-- the
hymns come back to 
you when you most
want to be secular or
an atheist or a pagan--
here i am in 
my boxers letting
myself sing 
ave ave ave maria--
hallelujah--
it's sunday morning
& the water is running
& the water is
singing
& the water is singing
with me-- her body
becoming a canticle--
she becomes
a lover
sitting on
the ledge of
the sink-- running
a hand through my
hair--thumb over my
cheek-- she laughs
& says i'm growing
hair on my lip--
i'm here wasting
baptismal fountains--
wasting the river
Ganges-- the amazon--
the nile-- kicking
up the silt--
water pouring 
from the basin &
onto the tile floor
around me--
baptism is almost
always accidental--
when i leave the water
running i turn it
up hot--
almost scalding--
steam fogging
the mirror-- 
i am so often
a foggy person--
obscured by 
the running water--
in elementary school
i would wait
to be last in  
the bathroom so i
could run water from
all the sinks--
wait for them to
warm & stick
my whole
arms beneath them--
eyes closed
i could pretend
i was at home &
in the bath--
in middle school
i would learn to
take the pink hand
soap & rub it on
my armpits
when i forgot 
deodorant--
sitting
on the ledge--
letting the sink
cry for me--
her water--
endless-- 
outside the water
became snow yesterday
but here she flows--
i ask it to
tell me a story
about when she was 
younger-- about
her father & her 
& graveyard--
instead she tells
me about blue gills
& the feeling
of fish hooks--
she tells
me about a shell
full of water
poured over
my head-- the priests
leathery white
hands holding 
my fat pink body--
send me down
the river
in a basket--
i want to
be born here
by the faucet--
i cup hands--
splash water
to my face
greenish 
facial scrub down
the drain--
i hestitate
before
i push the handle
to shut her off--
her laugh 
repeating--
her hymn-- wordless
ave ave ave maria
i leave
the water
lulling on
second
longer-- she 
kisses my forehead
& tells me 
to make
her my hymnal--
tomorrow is the
new year--
i genuflect 
before i 
get dressed--
still damp
& humming--

i want to
write less deliberate
poetry-- stop
asking myself what
the poetry is 
saying
& walk out bare foot
in the powdery snow--
the kind that is
so light that it
doesn't melt at
first & you're tricked
into believing
you could use it
to fill your pillows--
i'll sleep damp &
cold-- i want
to listen
to my mother
when she asks
me if i'm warm--
i want to be
able to say no--
no i'm not
all that much better--
no i haven't
stopped
keeping track 
of calories on
my phone--
no i didn't know
it was going to 
snow this morning--
no-- i don't
know anything
about driving
in the snow--
i slide at the 
stop signs--
i want to learn
to use my heart
as a paper weight
sometimes--
set it
out on my desk--
turn the fan up
higher to keep 
me company--
read aloud 
when i'm alone--
talk to myself
more-- ask
him questions--
laugh at his 
naked body
in the fogged
bathroom mirror--
pray my
chest into clay--
not that earthy
clay from 
the souls of rivers--
i mean that 
un-natural crayola
clay that reenacts 
the primary colors--
this year i want
to re-learn
how to make purple
& orange & green--
trust 
the water colors--
dry like oil
& by that i mean
refuse
to dry-- 
i want to 
be inconvenient this
year-- i want
to write more
poems on stickie notes--
more poems 
in sharpie
on my own skin--
i want to 
write about 
the stars less--
re-kindle
a reverence for
the image of the
moon & her
audacious womanhood--
when it snows
i want to write
about it because
when it snows
it snows & it snows--
i want to be
less afraid 
of silence &
the 1402 unread messages
waiting on
my elementary school
email--
i want 
make morning love
to my own
faint shadow--
cut her hair &
kiss her forehead
before 
she goes out to
play in her green
snow suite--
what is there left to
write about anyway?
i want to stop 
worrying about how
long my poems are--
if they reach the
rafters or
if they resemble 
the white chairs
in the kitchen i
used to use 
to crack
eggs on the side 
of the bowl 
when my mother &
i baked pretzels--
i want to
be imperfect this
year-- i want
to write 
more cliches--
more cliches 
about love--
it's all been written
hasn't it?
everything there is
to say about us--
refer to romeo 
& juliet or
pablo neruda--
i want to drink
less poison--
live entirely 
for summer-- 
sweat 
unapologetically--
this poem is 
not a resolution 
this poem 
is a handful
of that
soft snow--
the kind of snow
no good for packing--
no good for becoming
men-- 
not even
really fit to
be angles--
you can't
throw this
snow-- you can't
even
really form it 
into anything
at all--
even my foot 
prints to my car
are quickly
covered
by
the wind-- 
yes i run
in the morning--
yes i'm 
vulnerable--
yes my voice
is as clumsy as 
my teeth--
i don't really 
know where this
poem is going--
i want to
know less about
where each poem
is going
or if it ends 
clean or
radical--
i'm not a 
"drop the mic"
kind of boy--
this is a poem--
a cold stone
bench 
to sit on &
wait 
for the bus--
a poem waiting
for nothing or 
everything--
this year i want
i want
i want

in search of 
an answering machine 

blue-mouthed
& eager--
will you read
me through my new
wax paper skin?
do text messages
travel 
on the wing-beat
of the hummingbirds
or have they 
resurrected the carrier
pigeons for us?
just between me & you--
we surpass the 
intricacies of
satellites
& put our trust in
the birds--
pull the alphabet from
space--
each 'i' & 'u'--
construction paper
moon--
do you hear
my words 
passing treacherously
through the jaws
of the grey
night clouds?
astray in the astral
air-- between 
the furious heat
of stars--
why isn't that anger
enough to melt 
the doors
of my house?
i want to feel
the texture
of your palms--
enough
to give my
bones bat
wings--
do they 
use echolocation?
will they remember
to tell you
'i love u'
even though
i send the same
message every day
month 
after month
after month--
words 
intrepid breathing
of air--
where are you when
i send you
'good morning'
at three in the afternoon
because my concept
of a day beginning
keeps stretching
taller & taller
as the sun stubbornly
crawls into
bed too early--
pulls the covers over
her head & stays away
only to scroll
on her phone--
oh i sometimes
forget the sound
of your voice-- 
oh i sometimes 
hear the
hummingbirds
smack against
the back door--
their bodies crumpling
like wades of
sketch paper--
our house has
no answering machine
anymore--
i hear the reverberations
of my phone calls
as they're swallowed
up by the collective
of all these basements--
i send you hummingbirds
in the hopes there
are flowers
growing
somewhere in that house
on noble street--
maybe the african
violets from mother's
day have
survived by the
kitchen skin--
maybe the orchid
in my bed room
got back her head--
oh if you had
an answering machine 
i would have to hang up--
anxious to not
leave my 
misplaced teeth
beneath
your pillows--
instead of let
the phone ring--
it does not
plan on stopping--
each ring sounding
more & more like
the moan of a sea monster--
the deep pulse
of hawk wings--
in the window 
come the big black
birds-- the birds
made of shadows--
i hand them 
my text messages
& they scoop them
up in their talons--
they
tell me next time
i should
rely on the satelittes
like a normal
girl & i 
tell them i'm not
a girl--
& they laugh--
their
voice
crumpling--
i keep believing
that if i don't
hang up i will
eventually reach
an answering machine--
that someone will pick up
& listen just
to the simple
rhythm of my breathing--
they'll remind
me that i am alive--
blue mouthed &
terrified--
what kind of
poems do you hear?
i trust the birds--
where they carry 
my text messages 
is between them
& god--

temporary 

1. 
i live inside
an origami crane--
wings pulsing-- 
i don't want
to hang pictures on
the walls because
the next time
it rains the
paper will go limp
& the ceiling
leak heaven
2.
the position of
the clouds-- playing
tag with each other--
out of breath
i run to try &
catch one-- my
brother was a cloud 
3.
the gaping 
moon
4.
whose scars are
temporary?
mine printed 
like hieroglyphics--
the language
of pictures--
the interim of
words--
5. 
this morning 
i wrapped myself
in three blankets 
& still refused
to accept
that we were here
in the thick of
winter 
6.
i am always
so naive to believe
these augusts 
will  be eternal
7.
the clouds who 
burst
into butterflies 
8.
my brother who
bursts into butterflies
on the other end 
of the phone call
9.
i build a home 
in his mouth
shaped like
the waning moon
10.
my bones to steel
in the night air--
open the windows
& let out
the heat-- 
11.
mistrust 
the carpet-- 
folded paper
foot print--
12.
the snow will melt
13.
the rain will freeze
14.
i will again 
be mistaken
by god for
a statue as i
un-tomb myself 
in impermanence--
15.
my address
i ask you to send
postcards to--
i pretend that 
this dorm room
is somehow
flooded with blood--
16.
my blood
17.
this list
18.
how far does my
list poem take you?
19.
the ache of
my spine becoming
your staircase--
20.
the ache of
remembering the euphoria
of skinned knees
& the cool dusk
of autumn
21.
i am 21 years old
somehow &
my brother is 
18 & we will
soon
enough be older still
& we will soon enough
again be sitting
in my green volvo 
& briefly 
stumbling-- headlights
wide-- into
the clouded
sky-- 
21.
when we're done 
talking about why
we're depressed he'll
move on to
explaining the intricacies 
of germany's
involvement in
world war 1
& the clouds will
chase us
back to noble 
street--
we love history
& books because 
for a little bit
we can hold onto
something-- 
21.
the treaty of Versailles
is being sign
on a wooden bench in
the back yard--
joyce again writes
Ulysses &
vonnegut's promise
of so it goes
so it goes 
so it goes
echoes in these
rear view mirrors--
21. 
the stair case is made of
books & the words
of half-dead poets
21.
the rain comes
or was it snow?
21. 
the clouds catch up
to us--
bleed
our pages
white 
1.
oh fold yourself
tightly
it is in fact winter

i'm waiting for her 

the waiting
room furniture is migratory--
a flock of it's own--
following me from
psychologist to
doctor to the 
quest diagnostics 
where i wait
for them to take
me apart by vials--
what do you see in
my carmine veins--
i rust over like
the rail road tracks
down by the foundry 
from lack of use--
balance on my
own wrists & you held 
my hand in the slick
summer & we were fourteen
& just beginning 
to discover infinity 
in an afternoon--
i'm here to follow
the tracks in the dirt
left my leather sofas
& stoic-backed chairs
with their pinched noses--
lamps with trailing two-pronged
cables-- 
the real illusion 
is the we have time 
to waste-- as if time
were something to
be held rather than
balanced on--
hold me steady or i'll
fall & scrape open
me knees & my rust
will gush out
like paper weights--
weigh me down
gravity-- weigh
me down-- my pockets
are full of
clock hands & loud
digital numbers
i harvest from my father's
alarm next to the 
slouching bunk bed 
that is also a piece
of waiting room 
furniture-- 
will you take
this time to sleep?
will you remember
one line of a poem--
run it over & over
again in your head until
it disappears nameless
beneath your
tongue-- here time
dissolves in the bright
smiles of magazine
covers-- in the obscurity 
of office paintings--
covered bridges--
walk through one with
me-- i'll show
you how well i've learned to
balance--
this is how
we find the leather
couches-- their 
stubby legs leaving
punctures in the dirt--
what kind of dull
pain do you feel in
your chest when you 
realize you have
let the night
walk all over you?
you have let dusk
bruise your shins
with it's heavy heavy
boots-- did you
sky remind you of
your father?
did you finch--
did you recoil--
did you bend the
railroad tracks
like a constrictor
tightening-- leave
knots in the clock
arms-- leave promises
in the cushions of
the chairs--
who are you waiting
for? i'm waiting 
for her to be done--
from them to 
draw out all of her
blood vial by vial
until she is better--
until she is 
younger than fourtee
before she rusted 
& before she ate 
onion grass out
of curiosity--
we are a nomadic people--
don't believe
them when they tell
you to stop
wasting time-- look
don't you see it?
it beams like a 
rust-mouthed tea kettle--
steam-- the afternoon
is as long as it wants
to be & when the 
waiting room furniture
roams-- 
i unplug my iphone
charger
& follow-- 
be home before dark 
they say--
what do you think they'll
find in my blood?
a pile of thumb tacks?
your unwanted touches?
the snakes of
your shoe laces?
let me trip--
i want to be unsteady--
spill myself--
carbonated & dizzy--
i cast out with
my fishing rod--
snag the horizon line--
shut the eyelid of
the day-- 
time is not so much
a penny as 
the sound of 
change dropped 
on the tile floor--
if my body agrees 
tonight i'll sleep
in a painting--
one with a sun that
doesn't budge--
i'll hide under the barn
with the tails of
a thousand cats--
i'll hear them call my
name from outside
the wooden frame--
i'm waiting for her--
she's getting better