hitch-hike mornings 
& stars that fall like pears

what will we do with all
these stars?
i ask you because you
always seem to have a plan
for making
use out of falling objects.
let's make jam or jelly
or a great big pie.
they keep coming down
like the pears dropping
from the tree in my
aunt's backyard-- each star
plump & round-- engorged from 
all the rain this month.
there's been 
so much downpour
for tongue-dry july & the fruit's
insides taste like
gulps of creek water & dew.
i walk outside early early
in the morning--
before my father
wakes up & stands at the counter
alone to eat a bowl
of cheerios--
before my brother tumbles
down the stairs like 
a rubber bouncy ball--
before my dog's claws
clack across the kitchen floor--
before the day mouth
opens all full of sun--
i walk outside.
there is no light 
but the moon who walks 
daintily on a tight rope
pulled between the trunks of
the two tallest trees.
there, one our street,
i stick out my thumb
& raise it high even though
no cars are passing by yet.
i've always wanted to hitch-hike
somewhere that i could go to escape
myself-- i think that's why people
travel really-- to walk father
& father away from places
so haunted by the memories of
their bodies--
i want to be plucked off the side
of the road like a bruised 
pear-- make me into 
a pie or a jar of jam 
(if you can even make jam out
of pears)
& leave me on the back porch 
of my parent's house--
maybe the car will be driven
by a younger version of myself--
her hair long & bleached blonde
& pulled back with blue hairclips.
she still only drives in the 
right lane & is afraid of 
speeding--
i tell her to drive--
i say--
let's cut through 
this night//morning
& not look back--
we can escape 
these bodies together--
& as we pull away i 
leave my skin
on the side of the road--
standing with my thumb pointed
up
to the moon like
a compass--
the car turns the
road into a film reel & 
we unravel as we go--
the streets turning into
tunnel of corn--
growing taller & taller 
--the sky hailing down
pears-- smacking on the
windshield--
bruising & browning
in piles & piles & piles.
there's so many uneaten 
stars--
we pull over to collect the 
side in our pockets so that
wherever we end up
we can plant the sky the
same--
& in the end traveling
is all about where you 
make a home & how
you learn to stop running away
from your body--
we stop back where
we started & i get out
of the car to step back
into myself-- put my thumb
down & watch her driveaway
& when i get back inside
it's still before
my father gets up to eat his 
morning cheerios & 
the sun is still only
a pursed smirk
outside the windows-- 
i cut the brown parts
out of a star from the backyard--
i eat it piece by piece
sliced by the green pairing knife
& i let the juice trickle
down my forearms like
dew & creek water
& july rain--

sugar rain 

who taught you how
to drink from a honeysuckle? 
i remember my mother plucking 
one off the roaring bush
along the side of
the road to the park--
she peeled back the soft petals
& the nectar dripped like 
rain from the gutter--
i wondered if maybe i stayed there
all year round if i could
live off of honeysuckles--
taking sips like butterflies 
or hummingbirds--
wing beat throbbing--
bush sprawling out-- holding
onto the surrounding trees to sturdy 
herself--
where have you scattered
the fragments of yourself?
i plucked out my freckles
& pressed them in the soil
beneath the honeysuckle
bush one by one until 
my face was empty--
i kept the limestone
kiln fort beneath my tongue
like a pearl until it got
too heavy & i had to 
bury it out by the creek--
my lost teeth have grown
into spearmint leaf bushes 
behind my old bunk bed
& out on top of the cemetery 
hill in kutztown i 
took a hand shovel & covered
one of my knee caps in
dirt for you--
i threw my rib like a boomerang
only to get it stuck in the branches
of the tree in your backyard--
the one we climbed like 
squirrels & in the sand box 
at the park is where i snapped
off my knuckles as easy as legos--
& when i see honeysuckle bushes 
i remember how my mother taught me
to peel back the white petals 
& drink like a butterfly
& beneath the bush i see my freckles
sprouting into new bushes &
new mother's fingers gripping
the necks of plucked white flowers--
& new daughters learning how
to drink & wondering how
long they could survive 
drinking nectar
in droplets from the honeysuckle
bush-- bursting into sugar rain
from the side of the road--

dig 

before i'm ready to 
go to sleep i sit on my
knees  
& scoop
handful after handful of
dirt out of my mattress.
i get stones caught under my
nails & i scrape past
meal worms & beetles
rolling over each other like
pearls escaped from
my grandmother's necklaces
burrowed deep in the closet.
i peel back the blankets 
to have more room to dig
& i get soil all over
my bed room.
i'm hoping someone will vacuum
it up in the morning.
i decided to plant myself
& see what i grow into--
to finally teach the clouds
painted on my ceiling to rain 
all over my coiled body--
watch my freckles burst into
roots-- 
this is how your 
body comes apart into a million
little veins-- clutching to
earth & the pebbles & the gritty 
dirt like a banister.
one year after we went apple picking
i begged my father to grow us
apple trees in the backyard but he
said it was too much work to grow
apple trees around here--
he said that only crab apples 
grew easily.
there was a crab apple tree in
my aunt's driveway 
& when the fruit was falling
i liked to pop the plump orbs
under my red canvas shoes like
bubble wrap--
wrap me in another layer of
dirt & wait for the first 
fleck of sun--
so i learned to plant myself--
tuck my knees into my
chest & curl--
green knees & blossoms caught
all in my throat waiting to become
apples--
in the morning i wake up as
a full blown tree--
branches clawing at the ceiling--
arms shattering my
windows as if to puncture
a hole in the sky--
float apples on the clouds.
i made myself an apple tree
of all the colors & kinds of apples--
golden delicious dangle
from my ears--
gala from my elbows & of
course when the wind is strong
enough a handful of crab apples
shakes loose from my hair--

we laughed 

& took turns plucking the
moon out of the sky
like a marble--
you said it looked 
like a coin & i told
you it looked like a blueberry
& that i was thinking
about eating it--
& that i wondered 
what it would taste like
from all those
years turning golden
brown in the sun-- 
we keep driving
& i put the moon back where it
belongs--

i often wonder if
years later i'll still remember
these small moments
playing god with you &
laughing about 

the big things being so small 
(like planets & moons &
air planes buzzing like
gnats in the clouds)
& the small things being so big 
(like changing dorm rooms 
& folding blankets & 
throwing peach pits out the window
while pondering if any of them
will ever become a tree)

there's an eclipse coming
but i've only heard people
talk about it in passing--
it's like a really grand rumor
with special glasses to look at it with--
i don't really know what a solar
eclipse looks like other than
the obviousness of darkness 
but i hope i'm doing something
mundane when it happens
& everyone stops for
once to just watch everything
go black around them

i'm in the supermarket
a lot so i keep picturing this 
image of everyone getting quiet
& looking outside like
when it would snow out the 
three big windows of 
mrs. bowman's 3rd grade classroom--
everything would stop & whatever
we were learning would just become
full of snow--

i think i should look out my windows
more-- spend more time
picking up the moon like a bouncy ball
or an olive & laughing
with you while i hold it in
between my crooked teeth--
don't worry i'm careful not
to eat it--

i have no interest in waiting for 
the eclipse-- i want it come
when i'm not thinking about it--
i want to think if
only for a second that 
the sun is closing its eyelids
& asking us to sleep with it--

hold me in 
a gentle kiss of shadows 
like lips on my eyelids--

i want to pause & feel everything
stop-- walk outside
& catch snow on my tongue

moon in my teeth

i might not remember the
all the places i've dropped
peach pits or
all times we fit celestial bodies
so easily into the creases
of our palms

but i will have laughed with
you here tonight--
moon in my teeth--
eclipse coming down
like snow--

thimbles

when i used to walk home
from school i would watch 
the big black birds stir
the sky-- 
chasing each other--
their hula hoop bodies
carving halos into the
clouds-- 
mixing the 
wind with a clamor of 
rustled leaves & 
beads of dew draped from
each blade of grass--
i stood beneath their spirals
caught in cyclone--
hoping to get sucked
back into the sky--
this is how you get assumed
back into heaven
like mary in the paintings
at church--

sometimes 
while on the way home
i would lay down for a moment
in the grass between 
the school on the hill top
& the big flat field of backyards 
leading to my house--
i would count the birds circling--
seven-- five--
sometimes one or two
or none-- just me & my own
spiral--
back then i was learning how
to sew 
& i kept thimbles
in my back pack & sometimes
laying there i would take out
a handful of thimbles
& cover all of my fingers--
i wished i could cover my whole
body with them--
crouch down as i watched
the needle hum through
the clouds-- in & out--
roll yourself into a bobbin
& push down
on the pedal to seal
up the hem of the horizon--

i want you to sewn buttons
where my elbows used to be--
let's keep bringing up
the hem of this skirt--
up up above my knees
like high school girls wear them
& all the while the birds
spiraled & spiraled
pulling out stitches with
their beaks & laughing about 
how easily my hours
of work came undone on
the walk home from school with
the sun scrambling 
into the clouds--
whisked by bird wing & 
my feet walking through
the dewy grass-- 

i put the thimbles
back one by one 
into the pockets of my backpacks 
& counted the birds again--
one & two & seven &
all the threads fell
from the clouds like feathers
& i wore grass stain knees
& dreamed of owning a body
that could fit entirely
into a thimble--

running away from my voice

escape is a lifestyle--
kneeling by the side of
my bed one night 
i yanked it out & tucked my
voice beneath my pillow
like a baby tooth--
now i wake up each day
& rename myself--
poke a skinny dollar-store
candle into a 
fresh pancake at a diner
& announce to the waitress
(her hands still full of
coffee pots)
that it was my birthday--
she might smile or nod
(confused as to why a stranger
would be announcing such 
a thing)
you see i travel so much 
i never end up at the
same diner two days in a row
so no one knows
how many birthdays 
i've collected--
i say
today i feel like someone who
would be named
Alice or Martin or maybe
Xander or Tommy or
Sarah or Robin
i mix it up-- you know?
get up before the sun has a chance
to recognize me or
my voice has a chance to 
discern my body from the rest--
occasionally if i sleep in
i start to hear it
again-- 
a rustling of leaves--
it starts innocent like that--
like a wind chime or
the hush of breeze through the corn--
a voice catches momentum all at
once-- thrashing in the limbs
of oak trees above
where i sleep on another park 
bench-- 
i unbend the metal from around
me & get up to start walking again
before it leaps back down
my throat--
it's hard explain what made
me decide to give
up my own voice--
it might have something to 
do with hearing myself
on a recording & feeling 
like the words were being
spoken to me by someone else--
i just wanted to sound different
& so i try on different lives
to see if one has a voice
like mine should be--
each birthday candle blown
out makes me new--
an accountant headed for the city--
an old artist looking for
a lover-- a carpenter
headed home to see his family--
this way i get to try on
all their voices--
finished a plate of pancakes 
& leave poetry on
the paper napkins at the diner--
oh don't get me wrong
i know it's coming 
back--
a voice always does
& i'll doze off one
afternoon & wake up with 
my name back in my own
mouth & that sneaky voice
crawling underneath my tongue
& i'll drive back to my
house after all this time
& i'll go back to 
waiting a year for each 
birthday--

roses & other things that 
are/were/could be red 

roses are/were/could
be red--

red like
my nose outside
in november 
like
red velvet cupcakes
we ate on the curb
outside the eighth grade 
dance 
like
thinking that i might
love you like buttercream
frosting
like
knowing that i love
you like blaring EXIT signs
& sometimes like scabs

red like
holding your breath underwater
& sinking to the bottom of the
pool 
like
watching everyone
through a film of chlorine--
like
smeared pastel bodies
fallen into some 
impressionist painting
where everyone just looks like
clouds 
like 
falling back into you 
& kissing underwater
like 
how clumsy 
it is to kiss someone--
like 
not wanting to need air

red like
peppers
like
FOR SALE signs
smacked on front-lawn 
boats 
like
ring-pop engagements
underneath the green slide
at the playground 
like
apples & eating the
seeds until trees 
sprout from our mouths 

red like 
running away with you
& sleeping the back of your
parent's car
like 
midnight on the roof
like
a soup ladle full
of chess pieces & ice cream
like 
you watching me getting
sicker & being able to
do nothing about it
like 
measuring cups & 
lip stick on your cheek

red like
homecoming roses 
we dried out in your
garage 

red like 
i promise 
like
cherry slushie
like 
sun 

red like
fish hooks & bitten
tongues
like 
love songs i no longer
listen to
because they remind me
too much of a 
high school dance
like 
turning into the bodies
floating in impressionist
paintings
like 
becoming a blur of a human 
like

red like
wondering if i'm the
same person who 
fell in love 
in so many different ways
like 
jumping into a pool
like
dipping my
toes
in the creek 

red like
best friends & 
tree trunks
like
loving you forever &
ever
like 
burying necklaces 
in black trash bags 
like forgetting
to call you again 
for the third time 
this year
like
all you have become 
without me 
like
all you are because
we knew each other 

it was all red--
all of us--
like
the sunset melted
on the back porch-- 
like
throat lozenges when
we both shared colds
like
roses roses roses

chinese buffets/making god

i believed in chinese buffets
& plastic koi ponds.
i would sit there & gently worship--
watching the fish circle & pull their
veil-like fins over their faces while
my uncle & i waited to be
seated at the 
JUMBO CHINESE BUFFET ONE

the place was wedged in
a strip mall on this 
highway prickly with motels
& brambles of fast food
chains--
an arby's with a big
neon hat & a mcdonalds
with a big outdoor play area--
there was an
Ollie's & a used video game store
next door.

up the street lay
the carcass of the 
The Fairground Square Mall-- 
now only good
for Annie's pretzels & rocking
back & forth on kiddie rides--
elephants & dragons desperately
swallowing quarters &
swaying--

the buffet was an exhibition
underneath heat lamps.
i used metal tongs to pluck
hunks of saucy-fried
meats from metal trays 
& scoop nests of vegetable lo mein 
on my plate--

we never said grace at the
chinese buffet even though
we said it just about every
other restaurant (at least when i was 
seven)

instead at the chinese
buffet he let me roam free-
plate in hand & tall glass
of sprite waiting at our table--

we traded glazed chicken &
fumbled with chop sticks 
to pick up spools of sushi--

this is the art of making
god-- i thought as i 
used a whole trip to
stack my plate with 
"Chinese doughnuts"-- wads
of fried dough-- blushing
golden brown & glittering--

fingers gritty with sugar
i washed them off
in the koi fish pond & dove
down inside to lay there
& look up at the ceiling--
belly weighed down with 
plate after plate of
approximatedly asian cuisine-- 
from there the fish swam over my
head-- their wispy tails
like clouds obstructing the
neon lights of the restaurant 

what do you know about making god?
(they ask-- as most fish are curious
animals) & i tell them 
that i know you can pick him
up with a pair of metal tongs
& share him with your uncle across
a table-- that he folds himself
like a napkin in your lap--
a fork when you're too clumsy for
chop sticks-- chop sticks when
your too prideful to use a fork--

i tell them i like it in the bottom
of the koi pond at the
JUMBO CHINESE BUFFET ONE
& they tell me to be careful
not to fall asleep or i might
drown & wake up in a tray
under the heat lamps-- 
my body a wad of fried dough--
shimmering & coated in sugar--

i blink & i open my
eyes
to see my uncle shoveling 
chicken fried rice into his
mouth-- there's still three 
doughnuts on my plate.

i float on the back of
one of the koi fish & i believe
entirely in plastic fish ponds
& making collages of colorful
foods

i think to myself as the
fish chase food pellets between
the decorative green & blue pebbles 
that if anything god is maybe
a pair of
metal tongs-- the veil of
a koi fish-- 
the blush of a heat over
my head-- 

when the bottom falls out of the bathtub &
your body becomes a monstrous rain

face-up in the bathtub 
i puffed out my stomach to
use as an island for my plastic
apatosaurus & rubber ducks.
the yellow ducks' bellies 
were full of
suds & when you squeezed them
their beaks bubbled a sticky foam.
they walked cautiously 
on the breathing island
before dipping back into 
the bathtub-- floating like
rigor mortis leaves
dropped in a stream--
i loved how small water 
made me feel-- 
my hair was full of monstrous
rain-- the type that 
snare drum smacked 
windows-- i was the girl
who always found a way to
get her clothing soaked--
water poured in
through to the storm clouds
in my marrows-- filled my
socks with minnows & my
sleeves with water reeds.
i pulled the shower curtain 
closed so i could be more alone & pretended 
it was a curtain to a great magician 
show. it hid the girl 
with amphibian skin & the water was
darker now & more ominous--
submerging myself in the dimly
lit water. i felt the bottom
fall out of the bathtub
& my body start to sink.
my arms & my legs got
lighter & my hair unfurled like
a spilled pot of spaghetti--
i was scared to open my eyes but when
i did everything was dark-- the ocean
beneath me was resting & 
i felt the bodies of fish
brush past across my thighs.
down around my toes a strand of
kelp tickled my heel & i laughed my
lungs full of salt water.
i sank further & further until the 
ocean became dotted with angler fish 
lights & bio-luminescent bodies
who seemed to make neon signs 
in the water-- i wasn't scared of
the angler fish like most people
would be because she was so much
like me-- crooked teeth & 
flashlight & fear of the dark--
i followed her to her own bathtub
& there we both laid face up again 
to look up at the whole ocean
above us-- we could see my brother
in his blue swim trunks & 
the yellow rubber ducks 
gargling foam--
when i open my eyes i'm surprised 
to find myself still 
in the bathroom-- the bottom 
restored to the bathtub-- i touch
it with my open hand to see
if it might fall-out again.
i sit up & my body folds onto itself
which always makes me feel like
a hippo or an elephant--
this is back when i was young
enough to not mind being a hippo
or an elephant-- 
i sit on all fours & dip my hair
down in the water
like a paint brush
i let my
body fill with another
monstrous rain 
& i turn on the shower head
to walk through
the amazon river
on all fours-- the piranhas
nibbling on my knees-- 
when i get out & dry myself in the
towel i look back at the
tub & i feel like everything
is so small & i want to know
who else can fit the world
inside a bathtub-- 
i hope to see you some day 
on all fours in the amazon--
we can spot tropical birds &
maybe we can take baths with 
the angler fish-- push
harder on the bottom of 
your bathtub-- listen to
your body so you know
when you want to rain--
drop yourself like a bowl
of watercolors or 
like the shattering of the 
bottom of the bathtub 
into the great deep ocean--

rest in stanza 

let's pretend the names
on the tombstones are poems.
maybe they're written
in another language neither
of us know-- but i like
the shape of them-- 
i appreciate their
use of center alignment & hyphens.

lay in front of one
with me & let's comment on
the purpose of the line breaks
or maybe the use of 
repetition-- last names dug 
over & over into stone
until they sound like a hymn
or a song bird's mating call
hurled into 
the surrounding evergreen trees.
maybe these stones are 
an appeal-- a request for 
people to stop turning
into lines on rocks for
young girls to make 
poetry out of.

i want to apologize for
all i've wondered about people
buried under my feet--
what colors they looked for
in a sunset-- 
what flavor of birthday cake
they liked best-- if they
used box mixes--
if they ate their 
scrambled eggs with ketchup &
if they notice the fake flowers
& little american flags people
plant around their tombstones.
Maybe they feel their decorations like 
broaches pinned onto their chests.

i imagine it would be difficult 
to rest in peace
with all the foot steps
coming down through the grass--
toddler sandals & 
grandmother church shoes &
the sneakers of joggers
who power up
cemetery hill to sweat 
like oak trees in september.

when i die i hope 
i die inconspicuously like how
the trees lose their leaves--
one at a time until their bodies
are all over the ground--
crunching under your feet
& making the air smell maroon &
amber & clementine--

i want to be around you
all at once-- caught in a
merry-go-round of wind--
flailing in browns & golds--
burning like september's
sun stuck in the memory
of june.
i want you to make poetry out
of me-- out of every 
stanza i become.
i don't want to be a line
in stone but you 
can make me a poem--
a metaphor-- the personification
of the patches of unruly
grass in the graveyard where
the the mower doesn't reach--

stick pinwheels in my dirt
so you can watch me race the wind--
i'll meet you again when 
all the leaves are sleeping
as bookmarks-- dog ear
this page & come
back when we're both listening
to feet fall above our heads--
turn pages of stone-- 

say each name like a song bird
shouting maroon into the sunset
to look for someone to make
sense of his own voice--