We got evicted with a hot tea kettle
drank chamomile from street corner bunk beds--
rolled our smiles as croissants out of the moon

It was only a matter of time before
the landlord figured out we were 
only paying in chocolate coins
and foil swaddled crackle-candy eggs--
I was surprised we had got to stay there
that long-- the fourteenth floor apartment
which would have been the thirteenth
floor if we didn't trust our numbers
more than the heights we built with brick-- 
we loved each other 
dangling over the spider-eye city--
blinking us through another bright hour--
New York never sleeps and neither do we--
our coffee pot is the handles of the skyline
written in cracked coca cola caps--
m&ms in or pockets is all we got for begging--
so we danced to the swollen bell of a french 
horn player-- leaning up again one
of the subway's centipede legs--
the tea kettle was still warm when 
they smacked the door with yellow phone
books-- said no one lives on candy anymore--
and we laughed because we do--
make wedding rings out of the wrappers--
no they aren't for us-- but we like
to marry ourselves every night
when we drink chamomile tea--
and the water was warm enough for
us to brew the pot here
from our bunk beds on the street corner-- 
sometimes people ask us why we sleep 
on separate pillows if we're so in love--
we don't share blankets well--
we drool dream-- coil as warm
as croissants-- butter layered 
between the sheets-- but in the morning
we do get
up in sync and start the dough
for the real croissants--
butter roll and folded us into 
the pavement-- the others watch
from alley way blanket forts--
and wonder how we conjure an oven
from a street lamp-- share butter
like lips-- have patience of
all of each other's layers--
there was always enough butter
to grow taller
than the fourteenth floor
we used to dangle from-- but
of course we still climb
a storm drain when it gets
too dark for them to notice us 
not waiting in the oven wracks
of our bunk beds-- stuffed elephants
and black bears to keep watch so
the tea kettle doesn't boil
over on the street lamp-- we're making
chamomile to counter act the 
bubble of the coffee pot in the 
billboards-- in the shoe-shuffle
dance of a stop-light-- blister
heel pop of a french horn--
just because we sleep on separate
bunks doesn't mean we don't make 
love layered croissants from
the top of the apartment building
they kicked us out of-- yes
we're the ones whose smile 
rose into the curve of the moon--
we lived on the thirteenth floor
unlucky as they come wrapped in tin foil--
we keep a tea kettle warm--
hot breath into the night air--
and the arachnid gaze of a city
watched us bake-- layer-- rise
flaky skin off our elbows--
what will we do with the bunk beds?
without a roof? 
sleep against a different
joint of the centipede--
lullaby in brass calliope--
my lover she is a baker like
me-- generous with butter
and the process of laminating 
these smiles--
we drool dream of a doughnut shop--
we don't share a coffee mug
because we don't share a bunk of
the bed--
use the yellow phone books to build a roof
alley way blanket fort of the night--
re-fill the tea kettle from the 
rain spout--
climb down from the gutter--
fold the eviction notice
into a paper airplane-- 
eat the chocolate coins and gamble
with butter and pillows-- 

my father is building me a bookshelf:
we laugh about suicide Twizzlers
and falling down 
cisterns to sit with Pop-pop 

he doesn't know it yet but
my father is building me a bookshelf--
he has been since i was born
and he could hold me like a Heisman trophy
you see--
i come from a line of men 
who fall down cisterns to hide from
their own depression-- 
craft stain glass windows
from green and brown beer bottles--
my grandfather drank whiskey
before he died-- tapped 
his cane all the way down to the reservoir 
of rain water-- fell in ash--
left his cane by the front door
of the red chicken coop--
my father says that Pop-pop liked
to say that no one would find
him in the underground well--
the thick stony vein in the yard--he
could wait there and finally
be alone--
and it's funny because when
we say we want to be alone
but we really just want 
to be loved as tall
as a bookshelf-- sculpt
bookends from our own spines--
we want
to die but only faintly--
like the light in a stained glass
window made of whiskey bottles--
we wake up wanting to die
and go to bed wanting to die
but only part of us-- the part
of us we seal in the cistern--
we aren't a fan 
of dramatic exits--
my father twists a stone well
from a fist of Twizzlers 
--ear buds in another
90s punk video where he remembers 
himself as Kurt Cobain--
shot gun full of Twizzler teeth--
until I was ten I was at least
sure that he might be John Lennon--
my father has fallen down cisterns
but we don't leave him alone--
we know he builds things
to keep himself out of rain water--
I build my walls with words 
and he uses wood-- my father
taught me to put love in a bookshelf
-- my cistern is
a poem-- a dog eared page--
a chapter book simmered over a night light--
sometimes i wish my father was sitting
in a rocking chair while i fall asleep--
my father is building me a bookshelf
and we don't know how tall it will
be yet-- 
he adds another row each year--
writes letters in flyleaf pages
to thrown down the well--
some nights me and him will sit there
with my grandfather
just to hear our voices echo--
i told my father that i'm like
him-- that i always kind of
want to die and i know he doesn't say 
anything because sometimes
there's nothing you need to say--
there's only mornings to cut out
of wood-- a basement light--
the yawn of a staircase-- 
my words cooked over a night light--
my father sneaking out of my bed room
so as to not wake me up--
i spent two years pretending to sleep
so he could leave--
sometimes i wonder if he knew--
we both went to bed fumbling our
way 
down the stair case made of green
beer bottles-- 
twist tongues like Twizzlers--
burn suicide notes in the nightlight--
pass a whiskey bottle with my grandfather
whose laugh can't be contained 
by a cistern
yes my father has been building me
a bookshelf every morning--
i have yet to find something
to build for him--
for now i'll dig in the yard
with a stanza-- make our
spines into bookends--
pray poetry over a nightlight
Our fathers who art in a cistern
hallowed be thy bookshelf--
our kingdom in rain water
and fists of Twizzlers

How we abandon a year:
december on the porch, 
playing mahjong with calendar squares,
and midnight mini quiche kazoos

1.
we all share one lie--
it's our only solidarity as
humans--
Bang a tea kettle
a sauce pan
a wooden spoon
against the stomach of
the spaghetti pot 
we work to scare away
december-- she's harvested the
unused calendar squares again
and clinks them like mahjong tiles
outside the living room window

2.
we carry the burden of
the years we all failed to 
sit down to write an ending for--
we dropped handfuls of stars--
made our own planets to ascend from 
the sky in order to make believe
we had come to some conclusion
but december she knows us 
better-- and our love of 
each january is only a honeymoon
of perhaps 
& sparkling grape juice 

3.
my mother makes mini quiche--
spinach purses & pot stickers
my brother plays the symphony 
of a kazoo-- 
we make calendars until
midnight--
monday tuesday wednesday
monday thursday friday
weekend weekend yearend
end in the peel of a page--
we're cutting time
into mahjong tiles for december
to taunt us with next time
we decide to be done 
with a year--

4.
the calendar was 
made to protect us-- 
help us forget
that we have never actually
succeeded in concluding a year--
no we don't end years--
we abandon them--
lock the windows & pull
down the blinds
so we don't remember who
we were last time
we forgot a year on the porch

5.
drunk off sparkling cider--
grape juice mug-- fold paper
stars to throw out the
window of my old
bed room onto the ledge
collecting snow & the 
erratic notes of my brother's
kazoo

6.
we were singing auld lang syne
days gone by 
days gone by
write me an ending in mini quiche
& aluminum foil

7.
stay up till midnight with
me & we'll start over
write the calendars in triangles--
prophesier girl in pajama pants--
kiss me into a new notebook--
dog ear december--
build a fire
build a fire

8.
build a window ledge
build a star
build a planet to drop 
like a god-- we're all trying
to forget what we abandon 
when we get a year older
play kazoos to call them
home-- remember your body
last year and the number
of mini quiches tucked
under your tongue
when we spoke--
when we kissed midnight goodbye
and she only sat on the porch--

9.
bang a tea kettle to 
set a planet on fire--
kiss a mug of grape juice

10.
i like it when i have someone 
else to share a lie with--
let's make our own calendar
144 mahjong tiles long--
fold each into a star--

11.
a sauce pan
a wooden spoon-- 
let's not pretend the year is over--
im not really one for funerals anyway--

let's play mahjong just the four
of us
me, my brother, mother
and december 
she cheats and adds squares
cut out of aluminum foil

12. 
good morning let's pretend
we're new bodies--
love these bodies as everyone
loves the first day 
of our make believe january 
run away to a windowsill
i'll feed you mini quiche 
-- clink grape juice mug--
drop the illusion of a new year
from the window sill--
mahjong tile--
december playing kazoo on the porch--
cook spaghetti in a wooden spoon

clip my toe nails like the moon,
sticky bun door knobs,
and running from me like rotisserie chicken.

i want to be ugly 
spin me on a diner stool.
i want to be ugly again 
finally--
ive missed it-- ive been playing dress up
with paper napkins in the mirror-- making veils
to keep the toast crumbs from my lap at
the diner-- we sit at the counter-- i
eat hard boiled eggs from the nest
of ice berg lettuce we bodies learn 
to crash into-- freeze and sink slowly--
play violins on the deck of a fork
and the side of a spoon-- carving 
our names in the side of the rock
jutting from the plate--
no we were not pretty-- no we weren't 
folded back edges of our bodies--
dog ear my hips into handles--
we modified these torsos with less air
make me an hour glass to tip over
and over and over
spun sticky bun fingers wiping 
sand or sugar from counting these minutes
standing on my head
-- put your
feet on the toilet seat-- clip your 
toe nails into another moon sliver--
we ugly 
bodies know how to make use of an
eclipse-- know to flush
the moon down the toilet-- watch it
grown full as a cinnamon bun--
when i was nine my uncle taught me
how to be ugly-- 
eating with hands-- not
the side of a fork-- cutting into
the arctic and the ice berg-- 
step on cherry tomatoes--
we learned
rotisserie chicken warm lap-- break
bird skin like bread-- dig finger
in grease and heat lamp these
arms into crackle-- brown
the arch of my back i was
only ever ugly and waiting for a heat
lamp-- they don't remind you the
moon is only one of our toe nail clippings
and im tired of pretending that i
want to eat cereal from a measuring
cup at the counter-- i am a sourdough
sausage sandwich-- sticky bun
cheeks full of enough ugly for
you to forget im supposed to be a girl
supposed to napkin lap-- coiled
like a hard boiled egg on
the spine of lettuce curl--
i like to be ugly-- foot poised 
in conquest of a toilet seat--
you thought i was kidding about
the chicken? 
yes i eat chicken from my
lap and it keep me warm--
i split sticky buns with no
boys anymore
-- they can fear my ugly--
fade in my toe nail eclipse-- 
ill show
them how to eat lettuce and smile
bright as a toe nail night--
even boys can learn what we 
do to stop them from calling us ugly--
no i want to be your ugly--
what you call ugly i call 
goddess of the toilet seat--
queen of a diner cushion-- spun 
into a sticky bun-- pull out my
hair in clumps until i can be 
bald enough from the heat lamp--
boil peel off this chicken skin--
drum dark meat on the bathroom door--
stick stick sticky with the grease
on the door knob--
its your turn to clip the moon
from my feet--
this is what it takes to pay tribute--
take the other wing-- i prefer 
to eat the legs--
that way i know at least that boy
can't run when he finds out
im here to become an ugly 
girl-- i don't share sticky buns--
these are mine and 
so is the door knob

dont trust boys who eat peaches.

before you make the mistake of falling in love with a boy ask him
what his favorite fruit is-- my rapist ate peaches-- blush bruise--
tore all of us out like pits because boys dont take one of anything--
knot up our fists like apples--punch the flowers out of trees-- 
grabbed my ass like a cantaloupe-- honey dew these thighs like the
guava girl-body you were meant to be-- pucker up papaya mouth
-- this is what we were meant for-- watermelon heads of mine-- seed ridden and 
broke open in the back seat of someone else's Oldsmobile that 
i nicked-named god-- my brains have white seeds and we spit out
yours all black--
dont trust boys who eat peaches--i was the pit and so were you
and what did we girl-bodies expect from a campfire or a backseat?--
why didn't anyone teach us not to chew the seeds when we're nervous
--we would all come to grow watermelon vine from our mouths-- sprawled
out and cubed for the fruit salad-- eye of grape-- cheek bones
flushed as strawberry halves-- hair tuft of leaf on my thighs--
dont kiss boys who lick the fire off marshmallows-- 
they're only practicing for what they want to
do to our necks-- twist stem on a park bench-- an underwear waist band
my rapist fed me pizza skin-- cheese pealed off
the tomatoe pie-- we bubbled scabbed underneath-- swallow pepper
flake in a flame-- drink root beer from a concrete step and remember
that you told him you loved him-- because we have all loved our rapists 
or thought we loved our rapists and they weren't ALL bad were they?
they knew what good fruit was like and just took their fair share--
planted seeds in their pockets to leave up no where else to grow but 
in their pants-- laughed because sick girls grew roots so easy--
eat the skin off pizza if you make them-- bent over 
a hole in the back yard where they're trying to throw up enough 
of your peach pits to plant a new tree-- reach branches to
a windowsill from which to pick our own peaches-- we dont want
to love the boys whose pockets we live in-- but who can blame
a girl-body for the skin of a peach grazed against her cheek--
he knows how to spell rape close enough to love to keep
her planting chewed pit after chewed pit into his jean pockets--
were you a watermelon? an apple? 
should we trust him if he ate apples-- green skin or gold?--
or punch like the fist of a red delicious? broke open
seeds in teeth-- pits in teeth-- 
apple is just another way of saying peach
and love can be another word for rapist 
and rapist can be another word for i lonely
or concrete step-- or root beer cap roasted from 
a camp fire or that back seat of someone else's Oldsmobile. 

you and me and honey bee ice cream,
potting wheel for the candles,
and fires lit in apple blossom

i know that i love you because
i want to buy an orchard-- dress
as bee keepers to
harvest love sickness from the combs--
make believe we taught the 
bees about what it is to be a sister
to be a hive-- swarm angry as August--
sting every keeper who tries
to teach you what your honey is
for-- we make ice cream-- 
the bees stay up at night to build candles
for the church-- 
our church--
our stone stacked church
of stained glass-candy walls
breathing morning-- 
we eat our honey
ice cream for breakfast from sofa 
pews-- learn worship for the hum
of another sister-- 
were burning
candles for our queen--
Mary wrote the galaxy on the inside
of her blue robe-- 
plucked star's from
her son's hands to build honey combs
for us to hide in-- 
spin spin spin
the wax into candles-- we're lighting
a church you see-- 
between 
the honey crisps and the pink ladies--
we need the whole hive 
to light every blossom--
we never asked a king's permission
to steal
fire from the gods-- we found it 
ourselves in the flowers--
in the orchard-- swell under 
the apple eclipsing moon-- put
stars in the comb-- eat the ice cream
with honey wands-- beat wishes
in the grids of our wings-- 
dropping heavy in apple basket
wicker wove-- 
we take turns at the potting
wheel to make the candles into trees--
into windows-- into the stained glass
of wings-- 
take back the orchard
in an angry sting-- we're still bitter
about the apples, sisters-- 
we're still
looking for a way to call back 
the snakes who got us here-- 
everyone told us to be scared 
of serpents
but we really should of have been
scared of men--
not men-- boys who spell their name 
ADAM--
boys lighting fires without
a blossom-- kindling 
in pollen--
smash combs into their coffee mugs--
but they won't find our church--
that's we build so many trees--
we bought the orchard--
we sting-- trade night shifts 
making candles to keep 
out the bee keepers--
keep ourselves curled up
again in the comb-- Mary 
dropping sugar in our pockets--
we've been living fallen
from a honey wand-- dinner of basket
apples-- of wing grid-- 
we're not sleeping in your smoke--
we're awake and we don't die
with a sting-- there's too
many of us 
and we remember you--
and we remember what apples taste
like-- Mary fills them with
our honey-- sleep in grid
in shifts-- we're waiting
for you-- watching by 
flower bud fires-- the 
sun was only a match stick
in the window but we took
it and grew trees--
lay with me in a pew-- i'll
keep the candles lit tonight 
and wake you up when the
stained glass candy window
lights up from the passing
of another star-- 
 

dress me using salad bar tongs-- 
i'll learn to yell
as loudly as your fried chicken strips

every girl-body has been a cherry tomato 
at some point in their life-- 
take me
seed and skin and dry-- 
we salad 
bar sisters waiting to be dressed
in whatever he's looking for today--
wield tong and spatula--
we figure out from a young age
that there's nothing beautiful
about being subjected
to salad bars-- illusions 
of choice--
we'll still end
up measuring the honey mustard dressing
into our hair with table spoons--
we have to fit 
on buffet plates--
no one ever heard of a fat 
salad-- why did he shred us
into carrots?-- medallion of cucumber?--
cubes of bruised knee beats--
tassels of a bean spout we
use to sleep on under
the blare of neon light--
NO
i'm telling you i get to 
CRACKLE--
SIZZ-- burn grease on wrists--CRINKLE--
BLOP-- oil bubbles swet from sunflowers
we make salad tongs to keep
the spring mix from from telling
all the girl-bodies about the
fryers-- they don't want us
to know about how it feels
to CRACKLE-- wash bodies in
rapture-- walk stain on 
another man's collar shirt--
i'm not hear to balance another
cherry tomato on my forehead
for you-- peel the bacon flakes
off my arm like freckles--
we baked the croutons while
you were looking-- roasted sunflower
seeds to snack on while
we waited for forks to toss us--
no one chooses raspberry vinaigrette--
light italian just so they 
know we're still wearing something
for them--
men love a girl-body
in training on a buffet plate--
warm-- pushing leaves of romaine from
in front of her eyes--
cuts her bangs with a fork
of pickle coins-- flip heads
or tails or vinegar spatter--
spit into the arugula-- spinach
fanned in the summer--
i came here to scream-- 
i couldn't
do that under the leaves--
burst-break-bulge from the bouncy ball
yolk of wilting hard boiled egg--
toss me from plate to plate--
radish-- ranch dressing racket ball
while all you were doing was stalling 
the fryers--
i am
yelling louder--
i am press spatula--
i am fingers of potato we 
sent into the oil to become obelisks--
i am peeled slices of chicken back
sent to sin--
i am toppling off buffet plates
and bleeding through the napkin
on your lap--
we girl bodies are sick 
of the quiet--
sick of fork clink and measuring
the oil into our hair--
we want to bathe--
we want to be dangerous--
smudge ourselves on
everything we touch-- jump into
the fryer-- corn dog dive--
cut out onion rings
to wear as bangles--
popcorn chicken pearls--
scream into the paper trays
in the sweat of a sunflower 
where we taught you these
girl bodies were always too big to
be dressed by only the salad
bar tongs 
pressing us into the
shape of another 
cherry tomato-- 
get oil angry-- crown in sesame bun--
eat me fast--
i want to make you feel guilty
for once--

snake skin bouquets, i turn roses into bronze,
and drink tea from deer skulls--

would you be my lady grey?-- the ginseng queen
my blooming tea maiden of matcha--
we were bold enough to rapture the 
tea bags-- take bathes in leaves--
turn dark water into a lagoon where
you teach me how to sing-- why doesnt
anyone tell me they can sing--
she sings like snakes or the batter
bowl undulation of medusa heads of jelly fish--
i sleep like a bloom-- tossed shopping bags of
bronze-- of rose petal-- wild flower feet--
we meet at that lake where 
the moon jellies taught their bodies 
to intone in light and we washed the bones
clean in the water-- not just
skulls our bones-- your bones--
these bones to marred by milk--
dip me cookie blush-- melted into 
the tea pot where we all became butterflies--
where moths fell burned into metal--
into bronze-- into wing rose petal
as they banged their heads into
another sun-- fell fast and crumpled
you said i was a chamomile kind of person 
i take myself by the warm lake belly
full of moon
with two yellow packets, a tiny blue spoon,
and a squeeze of lemon to make me
glow-- i dont sing like her-- 
we broke open 
the deer skulls by the stitches--
peel like citrus-- like mugs of bone--
we make tea from the fog--
lit clouds up in my head lights--
found honey pulled from jelly fish
arms 
siphoned from dew on the metal roses--
she picked me up like a bouquet of shed
snake skins-- she knows where the
serpents leave their overcoats 
when they dance naked with the
mice under the soppy forest 
brewing leaves under our feet--
how did you sing like a Garter--
eat berries from the red eyes of
a cornsnake-- i rattle-hiss 
when you sing-- i python these
hands together-- heavy like
rose bronze-- stitched like
the pieces of a fox skull-- we were bare
foot
when we walked on water--
but it was really just the jelly fish
letting us use them like stepping
stones-- like goddess-- like Jesus
feeding the snakes again-- 
he's sick of being called a boy--
cut his hair and tossed it to the water
like a shopping bag bloom into medusa--
oh lady grey-- hold on to me
by the tea bag string-- we'll make jellyfish
pillows-- wash our hands of 
all those stings in milk-- crumble 
we cookie blushed faces--
id rather wear scarves of snake skin--
than be another girl-body wrapped
up in long hair-- 
we drink tea from skulls-- 
wash off the beetles in milk--
the mice and the snakes aren't
ashamed to be naked around us 
because they know how well you sing
and how i am just a chamomile
girl-body who puts flowers 
in their hair when i steep--