i was waiting for your phone call
in the bell of a daffodil.

i'll grow roots from
my toe nails here in the 
mulch & the soil--
soak in the 
eroticism of the dew--
i left the morning blushing
from the night before
when we lay with each
other draped in ivy--
the moss grew over our legs--
made us monsters--
made us hairy--
made us invisible--
& the snails rang their shells
like bells--
i woke up to find you
gone again--
is this your idea of how
to wake up the sun again?
the necks of
the daffodils snapped &
shrieking in dial tone--
dial tone
dial tone--
i don't know which bell to
listen to because any 
could hold your voice--
are you humble enough
to speak with the yellow
lips of a flower?
i am-- i am not afraid
to fall in lust with 
the taste of petals--
you always knew i would
eventually leave you for
a tulip--
puckered face tight 
as the knots that still
keep our phone lines entangled--
i don't want to the 
daffodils to stop ringing
like wind chimes--
it remind me of august
& pulling another orchid 
from your throat--
don't forget to
water us-- puncture 
a hole in the angry grey
of a cloud & drink with 
me-- drink static
drink acid
drink foot step
of thunder in the seduction 
of the soil--
i ask only that someday
when you come across
a bed of daffodils
that your remember how
much you kissed me
like the skin of a petal--
take a fist of 
dirt & root
& call me from the bell
of the daffodil--
crack the dial tone
like a foggy morning dove
egg-- i'll open
up the moss--
grow monstrous with me.

ouroboros and
my mother who takes off her bra
on the slumped polka dot sofa 
in the living room

and i ask you--
how can i get you
to unfurl? 
what do you
take off first when you 
enter a door way that holds
you like the sofa in
your living room back at home?
i'm talking about the place
where you came from-- 
the sofa
whose springs you tortured
like a trampoline--
my mother comes home and
takes out adam's
rib once again--
lays her bra
on the coffee table-- 
looks
up at the ceiling to inhale
the smell of cinnamon-citrus
perspiration in our walls--
the living room steeps like a 
bag of my brother's earl grey
tea-- he takes of his boots--
systematic-- one lace at a time--
uncoiled bodies of the snakes--
slither over each other--
ouroboros-- the snake
who eat's his shoe strings--
line-up at attention by the
entrance to his room at 
is also a bunker--
whose bedroom isn't a bunker?
only i'm not going to war
with the Prussians i'm going
to war with a windowsill--
i taught my body poetry 
from the tug of a pony-tail holder--
hair laying on my back like
a shawl--
i cut off my hair so there
was one less part of myself that
i would have to learn
to let go of when i came home--
my home is now a doorway 
and it no longer smells
faintly of citrus and cinnamon--
there's no ribs left for
adam to come and collect and
so the proverb goes
that my father is
the one who bites his own tail
in the form of his shoe laces
--doesn't know how to take off
his feet when he finds himself 
in a doorway--
my father eats stew from 
the kitchen counter 
standing in his constant vigil--
he's using his
ribs to open up another door
frame
crack under the pressure of
the foot steps down the staircase--
no this is not my doorway
and i never asked for your ribs--
take yourself apart with
me-- unbutton me like the turn
of a doorknob--
come in
come in--
let's eat out tails--

in the case of
talking to your mother through an Ouija board

the ceiling of my uncle's bed room is
slanted-- it was supposed 
to just be the attic--
the attic is where we 
put everything we
don't want to have to look
at everyday--
a good place to keep boys--
a poster of a shining robot woman
stares down at him and my father--
laser poised-- lightning bolts
spray painted on her hips--
my father sleeps in the room next
door with the windows open
because it's july
and their aunts are afraid
of air conditioners--
the artificial arctic possession of
a house--
their mother died without them
knowing she was sick--
cancer is only ever a metaphor--
from under his bed my uncle pulls 
out the rectangular box--
sun and moon painted in the upper
corners--
"Ouija," he says-- 
and reveals the
wooden board-- collage of letters
and numbers--
it reminds my father 
of the porch for some reason--
he's remembering himself
bare foot and shirt off-- 
legs collecting another
layer of sunburn--
his mother is under the shade
perched in a white plastic chair--
notebook open-- harvesting
a memory of how the sun
dried out her children--
she wiped perspiration off
a glass of lemonade--
flicked the cold water 
at him--
he jumped and squealed--
"I want to ask something
to her?"
"To her?" my uncle asked
and picked up the board--
"how will we know we're 
really talking to her?"
my father was already at work
and they put their hands down
on the disk at the center--
"I'm scared" my uncle said--
"I'm not," my father said--
"I want to know where you
are," my father demanded--
fingers grazing the surface--
for a moment he contemplated 
moving the planchette himself--
he would make 
her say she loved them--
that she remembered--
that's all anyone wants to 
hear is that they're remembered--
instead he let the 
disk levitate on it's own--
"It's moving-- It's moving"
my uncle whimpered--
"put it away-- put it away!"
"But we haven't said
goodbye or even hello" my father
protested--
but my uncle flipped
the board 
scattered-- shattering the
glass looking piece--
"Look what you did!" my father
snapped and a shard glass
nicked his hand while
he tried
to get to his feet--
"I was just scared--" my uncle
said-- "I was just scared
she wouldn't remember--"
and they both cleaned up 
the broken glass off the
floor--
laid out again on 
the porch and
painted 
painted
painted sun burn. 

platonic love 
and the escape of the 9 muses

1. 
the muses we're sick of
being another man's inspiration--
they said the only
place to pull poetry is
out of the mouth of woman--
a queer body--
scar skin and the 
frame of windowsill--

2.
zeus nailed the windows
shut--
as if a god could
ever stop something
like poetry--

3.
you would 
know how imperfect 
i was-- i am--
there would be nothing
i had left to hide--
fill the space under 
my bed with lamp light--

4.
you taught me poetry
there's poetry in silences--

5.
there's a certain 
rhyme scheme to a
morning--

6.
open the windows--
crawl bare foot through 
the garden in the back yard 
of a cloud--
Calliope painted 
the walls of our dorm room
with cinnamon
Clio writes our names in
the closet walls--
Euterpe laughs
in the scratchy voice of a
dying air conditioner--
Thalia stacks cups of pudding
while Melpomene reads
the bell jar
from the first time and cries because
she feels like she
has let something go--

7.
Terpsichore taught
us to dance-- but only
in a page turn-- 
Polyhymnia made a hymnal
for the entrance to 
our room and it sings
in the voices of unwritten
women-- the throat
of a coffee mug--
stories carved into forearms--
i'm going to ask
you to read me another poem 
about a Goddess--
watch Urania as she paints
black nail polish
on the back window
to make the night sky--

8.
and it was Erato who
tricked us into falling
for straight boys--
she still thinks it's funny--

9.
i don't lock the door because
there's nothing
i feel like i need to keep
out-- let's be muses
no one gets to use 
for their inspiration--
pry the nails from the windows
and sit from opposite
sides
of a windows sill
smudged with cinnamon--

the digestion of my body from the basement.

the steps to the basement
make me feel small-- 
i hold 
onto the railing like the hem
of my mother's 
purple lilac print 
skirt on a sunday-- 
we walk into the diner--
i order the same bagel with
ham, egg, and cheese--
only eat half because
i'm not big enough to bite
my way through the
empty space at the 
center of a bagel-- 
i gnaw on an end until
ketchup cuts open my white
dress like we all knew it
would-- chew
me into the house's
crinkle of intestine--
hear each wall swallow air--
push fat gulps of blood
through the pipes--
this is where the monster draws 
her blood--
fresh from the earth-- 
from the soil--
bubble freckles of 
white and green mold--
the basement wears mildew like
lace-- startles the rats 
with the hunger
that clatters each
femur-- each ringing clavicle--
the assonance of
your lips turned your
intestines into a sonnet--
who taught the house to 
make her body into a percussion 
instrument--
like all women 
she has
been a percussion instrument
i watched my ears turn into
tambourine 
she had to swallow on each
step down--
play the cymbals left in
my ribs-- 
there is no rhythm 
to being digested--
only the hollow mouth of
the tympani calling
louder
louder
louder
the stairs to the basement
unfurl 
into a sandpaper tongue--
scratch and slide
onto the cement floor
where her stomach is
cold and viscous 
with the scent of spilled 
laundry soap
and dried clothing
churning, burning, yearning
in the knots
of her body--
can't you hear her bones?
don't you listen to her body?
she is trying to make
a song from her blood
and her bones with all
these humans trapped
inside-- 
blue wires knot her veins--
she pours herself to
wash the ketchup stains
out of that white dress 
again 
and again 
and it's never stopped bleed--
from the floor
of the basement 
the house takes me into herself--
swallows hard like dry
white Women's vitamins--
i hold onto 
the wall like the hem of my
mother's purple lilac print
skirt-- come out with a fist
full of dried flowers
that smell
thick as
laundry soap-- 
wrinkle my white dress
like the flush of intestines--
the house is consuming
me with each foot
step down the basement stairs--
and I couldn't ask for
anything more--
she knows we love only
with the blood
we steal from the soil
and wash out of
the scars in a white dress.

my goddess is a poet.

my goddess doesn't have curves.
she's fat in all the ways
a magazine can't photoshop
into beautiful--
you can't airbrush the 
wrinkles from the sides
of her mouth from 
laughing at everyone who 
ever tried to pray to her--
her skin is the uneven 
texture of the moon.
she breaks mirrors in the morning
because there's no 
refraction of light that could
contain her.
Her face turned
the morning doves to stone--
fell from the branches
like lumps of coal
or hail--
my goddess has hip bones and
a blooming muffin top-- 
jeans pulled 
tight around her waist from 
a fist of powdered doughnut--
my goddess skips breakfast sometimes--
pulls herself free from
the gullet of a coffee mug--
fucks in the back seat of
her mother's mini van
to watch the windows fog--
doesn't want to remember his name--
paints bruises on
her thighs from
times she dropped herself
like an apple--
eats McIntosh with the snakes--
my goddess is in therapy--
she's anorexic
bi-polar
schizophrenic 
and
most days she tastes depression
in the wrapper of a pop tart--
she kisses girls
and thinks they taste like
peppermint lip balm--
she sleep in the roof in the summer--
my goddess
took a pregnancy test in
a port-a-potty and dropped the
stick between her legs
in relief--
she's infertile
and out of sync with the moon--
my goddess never wanted to be
a mother--
my goddess carves blank
paper and the smooth
glide of a pen--
she's a poet and when she's
starved herself of everything
else she can still take a fork
and eat through the core of a sonnet--
swallow each syllable
and chew punctuation free
from every stanza--
my goddess ran out of quarters
at the laundry mat--
wore her dress wet and wild
to diner--
ordered coconut cream pie and
had lunch with herself 
alone--
my goddess is not looking
for a god--
she's looking for a 
gas station to stop and
buy a bag of peach rings--
she's looking for her brother
to tell him how much 
she wants to play cards with him--
i love a goddess who
knows the waiting room--
the crinkle of the wax
paper at the doctor's office--
the feeling of blood drawn from
arm veins--
i love a goddess who kisses
the knobs of my wrists--
breaks powdered doughnut
like body--like host
like heavenly mondays--
my goddess never had a name--
it was swallowed by the moon
a long time ago--
but i can tell you her lips
taste like peppermint 
and she loves
loves loves
to write. 

another beetle to drown
in the baptismal fountain

me & you were drown 
like beetles in the
baptismal fountain 
& no incantation to 
our saints could teach
our feet to walk on water--
stand here waist deep with
me in swim-trunks & pink
baby skin--
deep fry me in consecrated
oil--
this is blessing
this is baby
this is barbecue
& original sin that still
tastes like applesauce-- 
we're learning cannibalism here--
oh & dress me altar girl--
tied up with a white cord--
quick-- let's fill our pockets 
with bugs--
i'm wondering again
what draws the stinkbugs 
& the beetles
to the altar-- 
was it their mothers?
did they get confirmed because 
that was just what beetles did--
took the name of another martyr
who drown themselves
in the fountain crying
ave ave ave maria--
lived in the cabinets of the sacristy
& sipped wine before it
turned into blood
only to learn they 
were one in the same--
no matter what
the wine was always
blood-- 
when i was an altar girl
i washed the priests hands
with a silver plate &
a cruet of holy water
& i watched from the altar
the stinkbug take bite
after bite of God-- bread
blessed into blood
into water poured back
into a fountain--
the priest paused to
look at the insect--
flicked it's small
body from the altar--
mandibles fat with flesh--
the same day when i got
the host i was startled 
& dropped it--
i could only think of
the gnashing of the mandibles--
all the bodies of the beetles
floating & piling up in the
fountain at the back of the church--
PICK IT UP
the Eucharistic minister said
PICK IT UP
only i thought he meant
the stink bug--
dead body stiff
on the steps to the altar--
drown me in the baptismal
fountain 
with the other beetles.

stale fork of chicken fried rice,
rotini staircase, and 
mornings i wake up in a beach house.

sometimes i wake up at one of the
houses we stayed at on the beach--
haunt a living room in 
salt water steeped-- the breath
of the gulls that blew the
morning into mist--
this is how we become ghosts
in the matrix of a memory--
i walk in the same rotini staircase
to the room that watches the lighthouse
over the channel--
count the whirls of the light--
hang your picture on the
walls of the house so 
that next family knows you're
still haunting--
forge with me over leftover 
chinese food--
we'll eat the 
cold
sticky
dry
chicken fried rice and reminisce
about the cold
crusts of pizza--
my father comes home with
sarcophagus of doughnuts--
wipe jelly on the walls
like blood--
scare the renters away
and claim the beach house as
our own--
open the windows and let
in the broth off the bay--
this about pinning
a taste to the feeling 
of a morning--
this is about the
incense of  toasted bagel
and bare feet--
this is about how you consecrate 
a house's walls with
your own memory-- ordain
each wall with jelly
and Boston cream--
raise me rotini 
back up the staircase to
the loft--
toss poker chips on
the floor as payment--
yes there's other ghosts here
and on the horizon 
the statue of a viking
walks-- boiling the water in channel
pour
mist
mist mist
in our windows until the
staircase
itself begins to turn
al dente-- languid 
in the morning--my father
stacks doughnuts like
prayer beads--
i watch the sun rise
in fried egg--
dried and refrigerator bitten
from a fork
of stale chicken fried rice.

moselem springs

i'm filing for divorce.
no i don't hate him--
i just don't want to love like
that-- i want to love
like the brunch buffet
at moselem springs-- get
cheesecake stains on a lilac dress--
when i was eight i got communion. 
white-dress bride
like all the other girls--
we knew we were monsters
to be training to eat our god--
nervously we
gnawed on corn tortillas and 
sipped grape juice from 
timid plastic cups
in the vestibule of st. mary's--
what we didn't know was that
we were getting 
married--
our husbands on a cross--
neck crooked in agony--
isn't that what love is supposed
to look like?
cut yourself down to the width
of a wafer--
i was taught that if 
i didn't feel the stigmata then
i wasn't loving hard enough--
they crucified mary
more than once--
afterwards everyone 
congratulated me-- 
hung rosary medals around my
neck like a champion figure-skater--
what an accomplishment to
be big enough to eat
the skin of your father
and your lover-- 
he tasted like sand and ulcers--
afterwards we went to 
moselem springs-- a flat
little brunch buffet 
up the street and i remembered
still tasting blood in my 
mouth and wondering if it 
was my own or 
my new husband's
i wondered if we shared blood 
now and i checked
my palms front back
front back
front back
for the nail holes-- 
i beleived no 
one had something they'd let
themselves be crucified
and i've yet to prove my
eight-year-old self wrong--
took hold of the white buffet
plate and approached 
the aisle of steaming coffins
to suddenly feel very dizzy
and very sorry--
i was sorry i had eaten 
him and sorry that
i had wanted to pile the
plate as tall as i could
to forget him--
slice me spiral of ham--
scrambled pillow of egg--
i bleeding fist of fresh raspberry
to stain my lilac dress
i had changed into--
i had wondered what the
stain would have looked like
against the white of my wedding
gown-- i ate cake with my
fingers and devoured
cookies fast as the phases of
the moon--

were you hungry?
my mother asked as she watched to
me wiping
more crumbles from my
palms to check for bleeding--

looked up at a room full
of wood tables
a drift in the hall of 
the body of my god cut into steam--
the chef was there with a long
serrated knife and the hunk
of ham under the heat lamp
peeling slice
after slice 
after slice that
bled in fat juice on the table cloth
white table cloth--
bleed raspberry 
bleed nervous grape
juice--
how much communion tasted 
like blood--

no-- yes--
i think i didn't know how
hungry i was
i replied.

the 9 stray cat lives of the angels.

and god taught gabriel--
fear not for from the first 
day that you set your 
heart to understand 
and humbled yourself 
before your God, 
your words have been heard

god took a hand full of
marbles from a draw-string bag--
green and sapphire--
captured hints of an ocean
moon-- lips of the hydrangea--
what do you know about
the eyes of the cats?
and he flicked the glass-eyes
with his thumbs
into the gaping-sockets of
the stray cats-- bodies limp 
-- strewn about his workshop

1. 
and so god takes back
the wings of the angels--
spits them out from the clouds
in the bodies of the stray cats
to learn how to love
the humans--

2.
we all had wondered why 
cats land on their feet 
from however high they fall--
they have to make it from
the back stoop of
god's porch-- thrust
off by the nudge of his 
checkerboard slippers--

3.
gabriel had been a calico
with eyes of drooping tree-sap--
raphael the tabby--
lucifer-- white and mismatched
marble eyes glinting 
with the kind of curiosity
that knocks over candles--

4.
they preen feathers 
with their tongue--

5.
they had never suspected
that the humans had
so many things to fear-- 

6.
they learn feast and fat 
bitten through the black skin
of a trash bag--

7.
god's love was nothing
more than the hands
of the neighbor boy
who hands out ring bologna--

8.
god spoke
through the pools of rain-water
collected in the uneven pavement

9.
but the worst part
was the urge to devour
the birds-- they could
handle eating mice
but there was something easy
about coughing--
mouth dry with crumpled 
feathers
and the fear of having
no control over
eating another animals
who had once 
flown so much like
them--

9.
return in never the same

9.
some angels keep their
marble eyes in the pockets--
fling bodies off the back step
of a cloud--

9.
what god didn't expect 
was how many angels 
would refuse to come back--

9.
eyes still float in their reflect
painted in a pool
of rain water--