potato roll heart girl i sold my heart for a potato roll-- broke it apart into pieces to toss to ducks & blue gills-- hungry creek water licked clean my feet i slathered my heart in peanut butter & ate alone on a bench for sixth grade lunch & Miss Brett asked me why i was sitting by myself i said i hadn't noticed-- i squished my heart into little balls of bread to skewer on our fish hooks-- dropped the line into the stream my father taught me how keep my finger gentle against the string-- to listen with my whole body for the mouth of a fish he ate bits of bread before casting out-- we drank rootbeer from bottles the way everyone should & every now & then we'd both say we felt a nibble-- a tug-- neither of us caught a fish neither of us wanted to i've been thinking about all the times i was so accidentally beautiful-- a fat ten year old girl who thought to put an orchid in her hair-- bare foot-- soil-kneed-- potato roll heart girl peeling herself apart for a fish she hasn't met yet-- a girl in flat black shoes-- cutting her hair to make a bird's nest dropping maple whirligigs from her window she flies in a downward motion-- she eats lunch alone-- her father fishes beside her & neither of them catch a thing
Uncategorized
09/20
to kiss a boy with crooked teeth when i was in the 6th grade i learned to lip-smile-- to keep the tombstones inside my head-- my blue retainer made a cathedral ceiling of the roof of my mouth-- i swallowed gravel from the yard in the bathroom mirror i would pull at them & their monster angles-- i would wonder how long i would have to stand there & press on them to get my teeth to line up right-- i wanted braces-- i would get them in sparkly blue like katie & when they came off i would have a mouth full of piano keys to play with my tongue-- the only song i could ever really play on piano was hot crossed buns-- i've spent years leaning up against the backs of my own teeth & when i walked through the river of rocks at the base of hawk mountain i couldn't help but open my mouth to pull out the rattle snakes-- now i'm 21 & trying to smile with my mouthful-- in the foggy bathroom mirror i noticed my teeth are growing more crooked than ever-- on the bottom my incisors jut into each other like quartz crystal formations & my canines howl through the cave of my mouth-- their pirouettes both elegant & unnatural-- i'm here to praise my crooked teeth-- i want to use them this morning as stepping stones into the garden we never planted-- the one with the pumpkins & the sunflowers-- weeds grew beneath my tongue so i let them-- i'm here to praise the honey suckle bush for growing wild-- to praise the ivy for clawing us apart brick by bleeding brick-- i tossed a brick at the glass windows of my teeth & they shattered into a poem-- i'll walk on my crooked teeth to cross the creek-- i'll put some of them into my pockets to take home & keep with my fossil collection-- my teeth shake like stone fern leaves-- they become as loose as wind chimes-- sing my mouth full of howl-- full of bathroom mirror mist-- i will smile my whole mouth full-- i will play you a song on only the black keys & i will grow wild as a honey suckle bush-- from under my tongue i'll grab a bouquet of sunflowers-- these are for you-- for kissing the boy lips bruised by bricks & crooked teeth
09/19
this is where we'll plant a fig tree i want to be the alley that you whisper down-- trace my spine with your feet as you walk down the gravel road full of cantaloupe rinds-- this is where we'll plant the fig tree-- between the gnashing fangs of my ribs-- take a handful of seeds & swallow-- i want to press your thumb into the warm soil of my bones i was the copperhead & your were the apple-- only i was the one with the stem-- i want to be twisted & plucked-- i want to catch your whispers & put them into jars to keep in the cupboard for when i'm lonely & we've long stopped being lovers-- i'll crawl inside the cabinets & open each mason jar to hear you breathe again-- your mouth drinks oceans & beneath your tongue you keep the Eucharist wafer moon-- this is my body-- do this in memory of me-- get on your knees longer after you've left me & check to see if the rivers are still running with wine-- drink with your hands & remember the fig tree-- remember to wrap it in the winter & put it in the garage on the cold cement floor so that the frost won't steal the leaves-- remember to pick the fruit when they're bruised & plump as the fist marks on my thighs from when the sky turned into a barrel of stone-- what do you know of the old gravel road from which i took my spine? what do you know of mouths & all that we keep behind them? could you kiss me long enough to hear me whisper? what kinds of stories do you ribs tell when you strum them like out-of-tune ukulele strings-- use the fret board of my wrists-- there weren't enough days to love you on-- & each sun waited too long to wrap herself in blankets-- there weren't enough rocks in the river to smooth us into skipping stones-- i'll skip three times before i sink-- grip me between your index finger & your thumb-- the next time you hold a pebble pretend for me that it is a peach pit-- go out into your back yard where we kissed too many times & not enough- & press your thumb into the soil-- & you know it will never be a peach tree but we can pretend & when the moon break free from beneath your tongue there will grow the fig tree again-- bursting out of the garage & sinking her roots back in through the bottoms of our feet-- our bodies were never meant to forget the trees we planted-- when did i become the copperhead? when did you fall heavy as an apple? hold still-- i want to fill this jar with your smile-- i don't want to forget what you looked like when you loved me & the moon was thin enough to melt under our tongues
09/18
in search of a reflection i used to steal my body from the full length mirror in my mother's bedroom-- it was the only place in the house i could find my whole body at once-- there were other places where i searched-- dipping my hands into smaller mirrors & fished out my ankle bones-- fistfuls of teeth & tendon-- i would lay down on the floor of the bathroom-- naked after a shower & look at myself in the mirrors around the parameter the room-- wiped off mist to see my flesh-- pinkish from the hot water-- my body was in a constant state of evaporation-- i wrote my name in the foggy mirrors to press myself back into my body-- oh how easy i become vapor-- in my mother's room i'd locked the door behind myself so no one could see my play with my own reflection-- i taught her to tie herself tight as a ribbon-- to smile like a folded paper napkin-- my flesh was a lump of clay & i remembered how to make a pinch-pot from third grade art class when one boy's mug had air bubbles & exploded in the kiln-- since then i had been scared my body would break in the kiln-- i've swallowed so much air-- i took both my hands into my mouth & squeezed my lips open-- crafted my skull into a jar to pour in pennies & beads & loose paper clips-- i figured that a reflection was just another art project-- one without glue-- from the shelf i took my mother's velvet makeup bag & laid out the implements on the carpet-- black pencils & lipstick-- i could never put my lips on quite right-- it always looked like i was taking someone else's-- i would apply them again & again-- peel them off my face & put them in my pocket-- i would swallow less air without them & then i tried to find my eyes-- shifting for marbles, i drew dark circles around them with a green eye-liner pencil-- i so much resembled the moon when it wakes up-- & again i wiped the lines off on the back of my hand-- when i was done playing i checked the door again & took off my clothing-- i turned to the side to see the profile of my body-- i stepped farther & farther backwards & thought about how i liked my body more the farther away i was from it-- i began to cry-- tried to grab myself through the mirror again but this time my hand touched glass-- i asked to be clay-- to burst in the kiln & start over again & again-- i took my lips out of my pocket & tried to become a woman-- both hands leaving smudges on the glass i told her to turn away-- to turn away & leave me alone & so my reflection put her clothing on-- she let her hair fall in front of her face & she turned her back so i couldn't look at her-- i told her to stay like that-- to haunt me no more-- putting on my own cloths i looked back one more time but the mirror was empty as it would remain-- lately i have been in search my reflect-- i've been holding this apology in my throat-- i want her to come back-- i'm not so scared of my own skin now & i keep my lips on my face-- i want to tell her she can be naked & pink & stomach fat & hairy arms-- she can be a jar of paper clips or the drowsy face of the moon-- i clear the mist off the mirror in my bathroom i'm twenty-one & i still look for her--
09/17
alternative uses for birthday candles open the top drawer of the farthest kitchen cabinet to the left & take out a handful of birthday candles-- you know which ones i mean-- the skinny ones that sob wax & grow from icing count me out ten or so-- preferably in the color blue-- 1. in the whole house light a single candle & watch how hungry you've made your shadows-- coax them from out beneath your desk & your bed & let them bask in the tiny flame 2. drip a trail of wax when you leave the house at night so they don't trick u into getting lost 3. get lost but on purpose this time 4. flip over the full moon like the head of a coin so that it sits dark & tails-up 5. when you walk to the corn field don't be afraid to step inside-- make popcorn with the heat of the singular blue candle 6. aligns fire's flicker with you breath 7. when the candle goes out re-light it on the sun-- only the sun & if it begins to rain curl yourself around it-- don't let it know there's a storm 8. tell it the name you wish you were called-- tell it the secrets only spoken on your wordless skin-- tell it the kind of body you melt into-- drip wax on the way home 9. get lost not on purpose this time-- 10. plant your candles in the ground in rows until they burn into fig trees-- into blueberry bushes-- into an apple orchard-- & when they are done growing sit down beneath them & go back to the kitchen to get more candles-- 11. lick the icing off the base & bake a cake out of dirt & jarred light from the moon 12. eat under the fig trees-- let their roots entangle around you-- run their fingers through your hair-- 13. lie to them & tell them it's your birthday 14. they will know you are lying but they will sing anyway 15. sing like a wind chime or a door bell 9. in the thickness of the trees get lost 10. leave off figs & apples & when you stop in a pool of wax you will remember that is this only candles & in the chest of every tree is a fire that will eventually go out 11. watch the leaves melt & let hot wax drip from your mouth in place of the fruit you ate-- 12. & if you want to dripping to stop-- blow our the candles-- all of them in one gust of wind that somehow comes from your mouth-- blow out the trees-- the leaves-- the foot prints your left in blue up the spine of your back yard-- 1. keep your wish under your tongue-- light the last candle from the drawer & swallow it whole-- flame & all, then open your mouth & speak to the moon & get lost as a door bell-- when the candle goes out re-light it
09/16
an open letter to my guardian angel i've been thinking about a painting from the back of a prayer card i had when i was little-- there's this angel standing behind a little boy & a little girl while they cross a bridge-- neither of them can see the angel's great swan wings so they laugh & walks forward-- laugh dangerously-- they're so young-- i thought-- to be so precarious-- do you look at me like a stone to skip or do you listen to my thoughts gnat-wing buzzing at night like a radio talking to itself? i guess what i want to know is how close you walk behind me & what your wings look like? i have imagined you as a blue jay-- they've always been my favorite bird & every time i say that someone gives me some bird fact about them being kind of feisty & not as sweet as blue birds but i like a blue jay & i'd like it if you had wings like a blue jays-- all cobalt & black stripe & white line-- some night maybe you could sing to me? i guess i'm writing to you because sometimes when i walk home on street lamp islands i turn around because i feel like someone is watching me-- actually i feel like everything is watching me-- the trees crane their necks downwards-- the moths stop banging themselves on lamp light long enough to keep a vigil over this boy with his hands deep in his pockets-- i guess i'm writing because i'd like to believe in you-- not because i think you'll catch me when i fall off a bridge but because it feels nice to be listened to-- like having an audience-- do you think of me as a poem? --a nice poem written on the back of paper napkin or a bathroom stall-- somewhere it could really shimmer-- is there someone who listens to you? i would hope so-- if not this is an invitation to come down & exchange roles for a day or two-- i'd love your blue jay wings & you can be the boy writing poems & walking home far too alone i thought at least i could invite you to come with my tonight as i try put the summer back together-- here hold a handful of leaves-- we can tape them back to the torsos of the trees-- i have a roll of scotch in top drawer of my desk-- one at a time-- that's how you teach them to hold on-- i want to hold on tighter & summer is cutting her hair into the stream & i can't stand to see her hair float like leaves-- it's silly really to tape back on the leaves-- when i cut off my hair no one tried to tape it back on but you see it's the notion of summer-- it just shouldn't be able to end like that-- like a jar lid-- like the resurrection of all the street lamps at once-- oh guardian angel wherever you are i hope you take days off from me-- i hope there's afternoons where you go off to garden-- prune the fig tree lodged in my heart-- i hope when you try to sleep you don't worry about me-- i can keep myself from falling-- i've gotten good at it so far-- & if you do in fact want to switch places just wake me up in the body of a blue jay-- i'll sing to you-- & you can be the boy whose august body kisses each leaf before it falls-- let's put summer back together-- oh blue jay i've been praying to i'm not ready i'm not ready take me with you next time you sleep-- i want a break from being watched-- to be alone with only the light from the street-- i've been in the process of crossing this bridge from the back of a prayer card over & over & over as if one of these times i'm going to fall & you will be there-- cobalt wing & song
09/15
she came down the people on the ferry leaving staton island will be the first ones to notice-- they're the morning people-- clutching coffee cups full of holy water-- letting sea air kiss their necks lightly-- leaving barnacles to grow there-- a nurse will make small talk about traffic & a university student will pace the deck as she always does-- trying to write a thesis under her feet while also thinking about how easy it would be for the whole thing to sink-- from inside the hull-- on an orange plastic bench would sit a man who rode back & forth three times already that day-- he'd look up to gaze wistfully at his green copper lover only to find an empty space & a vacant pedestal against the back drop of the red-plum dawn-- he'd stand up & walk to the porthole he'd usher others over to check to make sure that this time it wasn't only him who had lost her-- by the time the ferry docked every passenger would be frantic-- looking into the horizon like a sandbox or a sink drain for the green body of the statue of liberty-- but she was no where to be found-- people would start to call her name down the streets-- post her picture in every bus station-- every subway stop in new york-- the whole city would form one body to miss her with-- the mayor would make her promises if only she would crawl back up onto her stage-- other women tried to stand there-- they'd hold a contest to try to fill the position & only end up weeping & calling into the night for her to come home & all the while she would be there-- bunched up in an overcoat in central park-- she'd wake up in the morning & buy a loaf of dollar store bread rolls-- crumple them & feed them to the pigeons & laugh when the birds flourished around her like storm clouds-- she'd buy a hot dog from the grumpiest hot dog vendor & he would always ask her if he'd seen her somewhere-- she'd brush a strand of her away from her face & tell him gently that he must be mistaken-- she'd eat hot dogs with mustard & relish they way we should all he eat hot dogs-- as night would come she would be cold & she'd try to sleep on a park bench away from where a police man might see her-- a handful of midnights they would come by & wake her up-- she'd sleep walk to another part of the city-- crown clutched tight to her chest-- eventually she'd make it to port authority & she'd spend several days just watching the buses come & go-- she would have forgotten how much of the world meets in the city-- she'd ask people where they were going & her face would light up as she listened chicago, philedelphia, montreal, frisco, pittsburg, boston-- she felt the people like the city like doves flying out of her mouth-- she'd pass a television & hear another news cast about a lost lady liberty & for a moment she would pause to hear him out-- under her arm would be the torch-- unlit-- looking almost like a folded news paper-- there would come one morning where she would decide it would be okay to leave her own body there-- she would kiss the knees of the bench she had slept on & walk onto the first bus arriving at gate 36 & because the number would have looked divine to her-- she'd drop her torch in a recycling bin & maybe keep her crown for memories-- she'd run her hand through her hair-- lean up against the bus window & watch the city grow small in the distance-- her nose would be running from the cold & a stranger next to her would off her a tissue from a pink traveling pack & he'd pull out an earbud & tell her that she looked familiar
09/14
in the hopes the fog would take me
i took a walk in the hopes
the fog would take me--
put my hood up to get rid
of my face--
the street lamps look
sanctified-- all cloaked
in mist-- they wink at me
& stop lights
kiss each other while
i'm not looking--
tonight i could be the only
human left on earth
i think to myself
because there's no
one else with you
in the fog & even your
body starts to seem
foreign--
when a car goes by
i pretend it's just
an angel--
i feel my body
expanding-- growing vast
& wide
the tiny droplets
of water breathe heavily on
the necks of the trees--
the maples kiss each
crimson-red leaf before
they drop them to the sidewalk
like young birds who have
to learn to fly--
like all bodies,
the mist will
leave & when it does
i hope it takes me up with it--
i want to be a cloud--
i want so badly to rain
& to be gray--
i want to feel thunder boil
in my veins--
i want to fall in the corn
field-- drip from
telephone wires & rush down
main street to get dirty
from the road--
i want to wash everything--
the front side of the moon--
the leaves that couldn't open
their wings--
the song birds beneath tree branches
teaching their children about
the body of the rain--
i want so badly to rain &
to fall heavy on your umbrella
this sacrosanct street is
full of bodies of which
i am only one
& also them all
i want to rain so i can
feel what it's like to tumble
off the tops of your shoes--
wipe me off your cheek
this is a hapless prayer
to the fog to take
me when you decide to
crawl back upstairs--
i want to rain
i want to rain
i want to rain
09/13
dear joan of arc, what's it like to become the Seine river? i've been thinking about you a lot lately-- mostly because of how many poems people have written about you-- i hope you don't mind but i would like to write another-- this one isn't a metaphor-- this one isn't about a young girl turned into a fire & then a river this one is a invitation-- if you would have time i would like to meet you-- it could be anywhere but i would prefer somewhere romantic like a park bench or a fountain-- yes, a fountain would be nice or the creek that runs near my parents house-- we could take off our shoes & walk in the chilly autumn water & i could tell you all about how when i was fourteen i couldn't wear armor but that we all bled milk & when the fire ate us we turned into water-- found our way beneath the river stones to sleep where our bodies couldn't find us-- i would ask you if you know how to skip a stone & of course you wouldn't-- you were too busy listening to angels-- i tell you to hold it like this-- no--no you need to find a flat one-- & we toss them to the other side of the water-- yours takes three leaps even though it's the first time you've ever skipped a stone-- could you tell me what the angels sound like or do you not remember? do you still talk to them? alone at night when you are a river & the night sky washes her hair in your arms-- do you still hear angels? i believe you if you say you did & i still love you if you admit that you didn't-- i think we've all heard angels-- i want to ask you've ever made a duck call out of a piece of grass-- press your thumbs together & put the blade in between them-- wet it just a little bit but not too much-- yes you have it-- it's not hard-- i hope you don't have to go back to being a river so soon because i would like to stay by the creek long enough to watch the sunset paint herself behind the trees-- we can stuff our pockets with the colorful leaves & maybe keep some of their colors for ourselves-- there's the oak & the red maple becoming fire-- igniting our pockets & our hands & i watch the flames consume you & i say i'm sorry for asking you to leave your body so that we could walk on the bowed heads of the stones-- i say i'm sorry for making you a metaphor instead of a girl like me-- a metaphor like me-- another girl who hid her body in a river so she could no longer burn-- they dumped your ashes in the Seine river after burning you three times & i can't help but think of you dispersing-- floating farther & farther away from yourself-- your body a part of all the water-- the bends-- the curled fingers around the ankles of all the light in paris-- that is nothing compared to my creek-- if you should have the time come & meet me here-- we can be lovers or friends or children-- it's whatever you want to make of it-- when we're done we can be fire together-- let the doves lose from our throat-- they'll see our smoke signals across the ocean & the angels will tell me i was silly to try to love a girl who is now only a river-- lay down with me like the night who sleeps on the surface of the water-- dear Joan dear Joan meet me if you can-- we can leave our bodies in the water--
09/12
when i grow up i want to a park pavilion when i grow up i want to be a park pavilion-- the kind that holds the night sky up like the great mast of a sail boat made of egg cartons & rubber bands-- i'll collect the initials of young lovers in my body-- feels the etching of their hearts beat faster as they kiss beneath me. when it rains sudden in august the girls who swing too high on the big kid swings & the boys who hang upside down on the monkey bars will crowd beneath me & make pews out of the wooden picnic benches & i'll feel their bodies soft up against mine-- they won't talk to each other because girls don't play with boys & the swings have already taken her to the tops of the trees-- she has no where left to see. my throat will be wide enough for birthday parties & there will always be a kid who shows up uninvited-- he was just at the park with his baby- sitter & decided to join in-- he'll blew out a candle & eat the flame-- swallowed like gnat wings-- underneath my body it's everyone's birthday but no one is ever a year older-- it's just an excuse to light candles. look at the squirrels as they scurry across my forehead-- trying to find a halo-- my body will be the kind of religion built out of the inconspicuous practice of love-- in october when everyone's bodies get accustomed to living in desks again i will press my thumb to the sets of initials still carved into my collar bones-- she'll return to take back her kisses-- fill her pockets with them-- all different colors-- some the shade of bruises & others as vibrant red as the apples that start blusing in the sun-- she swallows them whole so no one will take them again-- she sits in the park pavilion-- my body & she writes a poem on her iPhone-- & dreams of sleeping there in my skeleton-- laying out on the cold cement floor of my figure-- she traces circles on the ground with a branch-- she writes her name invisible but i grab onto it-- press it to my chest & fold it into an air plane-- & when she leave me i will have the memory of her body-- oh when i grow up i want to be a park pavilion-- my hair will grow moss from the rain-- your foot steps will leave me echoing with ghosts & the night will teach me how to fold my pillars inward & sleep with the light in my ceiling on-- it's calling the moths home like an audacious & brilliant mother-- oh how she burns their wings.
Robin Gow 