When God used the lakes 
to brew ginger tea
and mistaking 
the stop lights for U.F.O. beams

How many times has someone asked you
to get lost with them?
Escape by means of a stream
of light in the window--
gaping mouth of a street lamp--
the tongue of the headlights--
Wander loose from this world
like the tassels of white 
altar robe chords--
braid impatient in all of our
laps-- We wait for night time
like we wait for the bell acolyte
to remind us that God is a ponderous 
creature with headlights in his
feet-- drops the tea bags in
the lake when his throat is sore
for the blaze of the stars 
crowding his head again-- 
I said to open the back door 
to let the fog inside-- mist the
windows-- take my hand before 
we turn into the milky 
bodies of ghosts-- I said
I saw a U.F.O. and you didn't 
believed me-- you said it had
to be God or the angels slipping
stones of honey
from the edge of the body of water--
tumble boil in the morning--
I stop at green lights--
stare ready to be assumed
and you tell me that GREEN means
GO and RED also means GO
if it's foggy enough out the windows--
I told you 
They're here-- they're here
for us-- for me and you-- 
the angels in flying saucers with
their headlights for eyes
and knuckles gripped around
the lamp posts like lollipops--
dangle in a white altar robe chord 
you left the back door open
like I had said-- I set out the 
bags of ginger tea on the counter
so as the steep the air--
breath in roots-- soil--
lake water pouring over the 
honey rocks-- and I opened 
the windows too
You said that it was too much--
that you couldn't see where your
body ended and where mine began--
I laughed because I had never wanted
to be so lonely in only
my own skin
God took
a deep sip to test the tea 
before he let the angels toss 
in the evergreen trees on the edge
of the water
add the boulders and over turn
the paddle boat owned by
no one but maybe the stop lights--
and the U.F.Os that hover just
above the steam from the brewing
of the ginger tea in our little forest
Close the windows
lock the back door with the latch
You said-- because you were scared 
of becoming me-- scared of 
being assumed by another stop light
scared of letting your body
fumble loose into tea leaves--
mix with the honey-- blink like
a street lamp to climb all the way
up the strings of the tea bags--
By the time I was ready to shut the house 
away again it was
already too late-- the roof
lifted and lifted until it
blurred into a cloud-- each tile
to fall again as sleet the next November
I left the door unlatched in case
we heard his tea pot whistle in
the throat of the robins still
trying to build a nest in the fog--
I used the twine of the
tea bags to climb up the side of the house--
scramble in the open top
back into my bed--
write love letters on your arms
or was it only the mist
on the window? Where ever it was
it was also patient at a stop light
where the U.F.O. contemplated
which one of us would make the
best pot of ginger tea 
from the headlights and the lake water. 

The ornament harvest, my father 
who keeps fireflies under the sink and 
the fruit left glass in our teeth--

My brother and I wear sunhats
in the living room--
The mildew must is from the
cardboard boxes on our hips--
we've been preparing for the harvest--
We know bare feet.
We have always kept August somewhere
in our house--
In my father's lightning bug
mason jars underneath the sink--
In the callouses the drive way
gave my mother's bare feet--
in the dried white flowers on the book
shelves and in puddles of raspberry jam
becoming an ocean in a shortbread cookie--
We don't waste time
stringing lights when it becomes
December-- my father just pops
open another jelly-jar of 
fireflies who laugh red and green
into the evergreen grove--
star-crowned tree tops
push up through the carpet--
part the rug-- fold over into cream soil--
the sofa shifts to the side
nudged by cinnamon roots-- 
prick of pine needles
on our noses-- 
branches protrude in front
of door frames-- we limbo
to the breakfast table under each limb--
The living room contorts
into an orchard once again--
We water Christmas trees
in hot chocolate morning--
Put on eggnog sun screen to prevent
us from burning again like gingerbread
men while we pluck glare from glass orbs
-- cinnamon mixes with freckle and we harvest the 
ornaments for breakfast just like
our father taught us-- twist
the metal hooks to strum each
apple-- each quince-- each 
gold finch perched and ripening
in glitter-- each planet
swollen from drinking so many
of our grandfather's mugs of hot chocolate
and whiskey--
the fruit remembers the war-- it remembers
wrapping paper tumble weeds--
it remembers growing-- and 
the first time it was pierced onto 
a metal hook to drink chocolate with 
the rest of us in the morning--
the fruit remembers the year my
mother was sick and we all got a brother--
it remembers robot dinosaurs
and the steady slumping of the sofa--
it remembers the advent wreath with
the shout purple candle and the lost heads
of the wise man's camel--
it remembers foot prints on the snow roof
and carpet soil knees--
the fruit remembers years when we didn't
grow Christmas trees-- when
the carpet was bare-- coffee stained
and the lightning bugs underneath 
the sink died in November--
the fruit remembers our foreheads
and the trash bags of wrapping paper 
we had to sleep in for warmth.  
my father always takes the first bite--
picks the glass from his teeth and
spits blood on the china plates--
the one with the real gold in the rim--
next is my mother who always thinks 
they taste like figs
then we pass them to my brothers
and I-- I think the ornaments taste
like pizzelles-- like a spoon full of
jam-- like split oreos and 
dissolving chocolate squares under your
tongue-- like teeth brushed with
candy canes and torrone--
my brother tastes spoons of honey--
the aluminum wrappers of gold coins
we planted in the yard to grow fortunes.
The fruit remembers-- and we pass to our
left so everyone gets a bit--
pack our mouths with gauze and go
back to check on the orchard overcoming 
the television set and the curled back bone 
of the ceiling--
the trees grow well this year--
prune the ornaments free of tinsel
and the fireflies sleep on the branches
only to be collected back into the mason
jars and stored carefully under the sink.   

My father paints every snowflake. 
My mother speaks mustard seed multitudes. 

You see my father makes the snowflakes.
He wasn't assigned the job-- he
took it on as a side gig one year
when he discovered all he needed
was paint and wood and he could
build us each a roof to drop
a blizzard from--
God tells my father that he
has the snow covered-- that my father
doesn't need to work so hard to
build so many snowflakes-- 
My father turns up the radio and 
picks glitter from under his nails--
grumbles that God never made a snowflake
like him--
my father makes the type
of blizzard that everyone wants--
snow warm marshmallow melted 
coco mud mush on our fur boots--
soak our legs in the muck of candy cane--
we were all the kids of chocolate dirt 
and excited cold fingers on mugs--
Those blizzards pressed down our
our foreheads like the tightening 
of mason jars in the pot--
call the children from the shelves--
from the refraction of each ornament--
from toy trains buckled 
around our waists hula hoop me holidays--
My brother and I noticed Santa
only knows how to write in crayon.
The rattle of the basement 
is my father as he makes snow--
He's always makes the snow 
but we pretend to be surprised
when we wake up white-- glitter
under our finger nails-- new 
paint stain on his jeans--
The oven is my mother--
the bread rising on the baking sheet--
spritz cookie shot gun and 
open doors of an advent calendar--
she's the pink candle-- 
while my father makes the
snow she makes each of us mustard--
pulls us apart in seeds of quiet multitudes--
she says 
the kingdom is a snowflake or was it a mustard
seed-- we plant both in the carpet
of my house to be safe and there's where
the Christmas tree sprouts each year--
we water it with blizzard--
bake it until it scrapes the ceiling with the star--
the blue orb that hatches at night
in the flour hands of my
mother who is still counting
the lids of the mason jars in on the shelf--
my brother Joey asks if my father dresses as
Santa Claus sometimes at night.
I laugh because my father 
hammered each glisten into the 
snow flakes-- my mother broke us
into a galaxy of mustard seeds-- lit
our foreheads in tongue of flame
to lick candy canes-- 
I laugh because I don't know 
who eats the cookies-- who drinks
the milk but I do know who builds the snow
flakes and who is the oven
and who keeps the lids on the mason 
jars-- we all planted this tree to harvest 
the ornaments-- pluck them plump
and ripe in January-- dripping in coco
nectar-- we collect their mustard seeds
to plant next year--
and my father already has blue prints
for the snowflakes.

Stirring our bodies like mice,
the sugar plum groove and 
boy saints shoved down our chimneys--

When I was seven I dreamed my skin
into wrapping paper to smother
the mice in the basement--
the nest-- the coil-- the tinsel tangle--
we had nightmares about their
bodies writhing in another glue trap--
fur peeling like tangerines
in the pot on the stove-- what did 
we kill the mice for? 
Every Christmas I felt sorry because
my brother and I stirred our bodies
like the mice-- hands and knees 
and my father's sweater sleeves
we slept in-- I woke my brother
up to remind him we had to
protect the house but he wasn't
scared because my brother was a boy
and didn't mind someone coming down 
the chimney-- no one breaks windows
for brothers-- he could sugar plum
groove and steal cookies from 
the plate like all little boys are
taught to do-- we grew fingers of
mice and gamboled gentle on
the arms of the clock-- 
elbow turn into midnight--
we waited as anxious as the last step 
up the staircase to the attic.
That's where the ghosts of the bats
ate mice tails and sugar plums--
wrapped wings for Christmas and roasted
tangerines on in the oven--
I know who taught me my skin 
was wrapping paper. We all do.
We keep names like 
ribbons and bows from unwrapped gifts-- 
Christmas cards we'll never read again
under our beds--
don't throw me away like
a glue trap-- tangerine skin girl-body again--
finger nails through my skin--
teach me to become a present for you
saint boy in your red suit-- 
did you eat cherries or sugar plums
or the bricks down my chimney to become
so red soot and scramble like another mouse--
why don't we make glue traps for boys
who come to eat our cookie plates?
make welcome mats of the stove top
and wipe boots on the door knob--
my father sleeps like a tangerine 
drink milk-- wipe chocolate
from saint nick gloves on the carpet--
leave us stained and 
peel skin like wrapping paper-- 
was I your present to wrap and unwrap
wrap and unwrap--
Merry Christmas tag this girl-body in
training-- we sleep under the tree
for him-- waiting with all these cookies-- 
bows on our wrists tied like a witch
to a Christmas tree-- mouse back 
glue trap-- we are here waiting
by another chimney just
to watch him eat the bricks--
one by one shortbread jaws
of a man with claws--
saint saint saint and the black sack
to keep all us wrapped up girls--
squirm like mice while
my brother takes a cookie from the
plate and peels it in two--
dip milk and sugar plum groove back to bed
where I have never slept
and he falls into the taunt ribbon
of a stirred mouse dream-- I'm listening for 
feet on the roof-- we're taught
to love the man who wants to 
descend down our chimneys ready to
wrap us up perfect for the
dirt beneath the tree-- burn tangerines
and plums to leave the room smelling
like saints-- 
Yes I remember his name. We all 
do. We all know who
made our skin into wrapping paper--
we all tried to sway like a sugar plum--
we all baked so many cookies
and never ate a single one--
face down in a glue trap-- bow wrist 
and sugar plum sugar plum dance
with him back up a chimney--

She laughs like a handful of raspberries:
Kiss me in the hollow of the mouse skulls
and we'll read goodnight from tea leaves

Let's take a walk in those woods of yours-- 
become smaller
and smaller until we can
meander underneath the wire-wings of 
burnt-auburn and beige leaves--
smell the rot of the forest
drip into our skin like
the nervous blushing of
the dew on the grass 
becoming December.
We collect the sound of each rustle
in the distance to make lockets--
you and I remember the feet
of the moths on the trees--
the knees of a cicadas bent
in August-- 
We keep raspberries in our
pockets--
make bracelets from the 
drosy dandy lions who forgot their
manes--
Oh I have crumpled up so 
many kisses on boy wrists
and the windowsill of a midnight.
beat me dead butterfly wing 
and your cheek bones
you peel off of a hyacinth--
Oh what I would have done
if I had know someone 
could laugh like a handful of raspberries--
I want to show you
where I used to sit in the grass
peel spearmint leaves off the bush behind my
house-- I want you to meet
the foxes and and feed them watermelon 
rind-- I'll teach you how I 
paint a sunset like a bruised knee--
pastel thumbs and sleeping
on a bed of spear mint so we
can make tea in the morning--
Hold me like a mug handle--
and we can steep in amber--
share the mint leaves-- 
one for you and one for me--
Your voice is like a tablespoon
of honey-- stir my hair like chestnuts
or the rustling of our lockets--
trade raspberries like nickles--
The mice will learn to leave their
skulls on the forest floor
for us to ramble through--
I don't want to kiss you
like another bruise or 
hold you only like a mug handle--
I want to kiss you like a handful
of raspberries 
in the summer in the hollow 
and the shadow of a mouse skull
where stop between
the layers and layers of leaves
stacked like tiramisu and 
dead butterfly wing--
I know I never kissed you before
but I know I have kissed
honey and 
I know I've kissed boys
and I hope you can forgive me
for all the pieces
of myself I've set in pressed 
flowers on the window still--
Let's take a walk in those
woods of yours-- our mugs
and our hands to hold
each other steady on wobbly 
stones-- the knuckles of the forest
King who waits over us both--
we laugh at him because
he thinks that we could ever fall
but we have each other to steady
our foot steps in the slippery
frost snapped morning--
We'll sleep in the rib cage of a deer--
brew tea with the nervous 
blush of dew as the sun plummets
heavy as a tablespoon of honey--
And you'll laugh like you always do
like raspberries--
We'll finish each other's mugs
and read stories from the patterns
in the leaves-- soaked silhouette of 
a mouse skeleton and the 
shadow of another elm tree on the
forest floor--
grow tall with me-- 
We'll escape from the bellies
of the leaves-- walk into the
midnight I tried to leave on a windowsill--
meet me there and we'll
sleep dangled in the rustling of
our lockets 
and the quiet laughter of 
spear mint 
and our silhouettes bruised into
the inside of a mug. 

Three pancakes tall, peanut butter knife, and 
and my practice of waking up in other people's beds.

I want to talk about pancakes.
I want to talk about sleeping
underneath dough--
about soaking the house in 
the hot breath of a cast iron pan--
about waking up to the wrist of my
mother at the stove
and the gasping of the coffee machine
calling us all the kitchen--
I want to talk about
about the peanut butter knife
in the sink and 
the open bag of cinnamon raisin
bagels in the bread box.
I want to talk about
the counter of the airport 
diner back when me feet didn't
touch the ground--
My uncle 
hoisted me up on a stool
and I spun myself smooth
like the flick of a peanut butter knife--
measured myself
three pancakes high and laughed 
like the mouth of syrup cruet--
I wake up in other people's beds 
sometimes now.
No not what
you think.
I don't meet the people at all
I don't wake up as them--
I just wake up where they would be---
there in orange quilts-- teal fleece
-- look up
at a foreign ceiling--
a side table cluttered with photographs
of unremembered families
smiling at me again like syrup--
I feel just like a pancake does 
counting the rotations of a fan's orbit
around a ceiling-- 
I feel just like a knife in a sink
and I wonder if when I wake
up again this time it will
be in my own bed-- my own
warm plate three pancakes short
perched on the kitchen counter--
Oh!-- We were all breathed alive by
the glimmer of a cast iron pan 
and the absent spatula of my mother--
we all have flushed cheeks--
cover our morning burns in syrup--
laugh dangle-legged at the diner
counter-- we count biplanes
and plunge fork deep--
we're butter foreheads--
I want to talk about the bread box--
about stale rye bread
and the cinnamon raisin bagel
that waits for me when I get home
past midnight in my own bed
I set your alarm so when you wake up 
five minutes earlier you will
have extra time to listen to
the pancakes being born
and stacked like blankets 
one on one on one on
top of you to keep you warm--
to wake you up in the right
bed this time-- to remember 
the peanut butter knife askew 
in the sink--
From your bed I count six rotations
of the fan before I decide to
sleep again--
before I decide that you probably
miss it here
and I wake up again beneath
a pancake on my mother's plate--
so does not notice I'm burnt
under the wrist flick of peanut butter.
I didn't mean to see all your photos
on the end table but I
wanted to say you're tall and beautiful
and short and rapturous
whoever you are-- I wanted to say you
should wake up five minutes early each
day just to smell the pancakes--
measure yourself with a notch on 
the wall and dip syrup over
your wrists in the bathroom--
when they ask why you're late for breakfast
you can blame me-- you can blame me for waking
up to count the rotations of your
ceiling fan--
look across the diner counter
see me seeing you and you seeing
and look away-- I smell like
the cough of a coffee machine 
the crinkle of biplane
outside your bedroom window and
the cinnamon raisin bagel
patient in the bread box.

Funerals for our Christmas tree siblings:
Pizzelle stump and feral cat hymn-- 

Did you ever love someone 
like a Christmas tree? 
So eager to die slowly as a spectacle
of lights and tinsel--
drink tea from your feet--
I understand my Christmas tree
like my brothers can't--
I listened to him when they shook
off his dead needles at the farm--
bound him in orange netting--
caged against 
the roof of the station wagon---
He was cold-- wanted to wear my mittens
and the yellow sweater left
over from a grandmother who
wrote love letters in pizzelles--
pizzelles like the stumps of trees
writing each year in a pressed arabesque--
We remember the trees names--
keep their stumps on the mantel--
thumb print tomb stones that smell
like forgetting-- 
He cried about his roots
growing numb-- lodged in the vertebrae
of the mountain that over looks
Kuztown: blue silhouette 
of a sleeping dragon--
breaths us
in barn bond fires--
We teach the freshly
cut tree about hot chocolate and family--
Oh Christmas trees who have
been our temporary siblings--
we've woken up and listened
to the weather channel sing
quiet Christmas songs before school days--
dressed you in our glass relics--
your arms to hold the fragile 
spheres formed only
from fragment memory--
candy canes plucked from your
hair and a string of lights
hot against your body to keep
you warm when the house
inhales winter from the windows--
It's harder to know that you're 
only visiting--
I've had so many Christmas tree siblings
and I think only I'm still mourning them--
me and the feral cats who
visit their corpses in the backyard--
sing hymns and clatter the bins
of diet coke cans like bells
we watch green turn orange--
turn skeleton-- turn bone--
turn into another passing of Christmas--
graceful like the death of 
my grandfather-- sleepy 
in a shawl of whiskey and night--
he still sits on the porch and smokes
cigars sometimes and watches
us decorate the Christmas tree
with ornaments reflecting fragments 
of his own memory--
He eats pizzelles and everyone
can think of a how warm it
felt to see our Christmas tree sibling
shake her hips on the eve-- 
only then could we forget about her dying--
I've had brothers and sisters of pine
and each one dances different on the eve--
some help us pour milk for Santa--
count carrots for the reindeer--
when we unplug the lights 
he sips more tea from his feet and stays
up to watch the floor pile with 
presents-- eats pizzelles 
and remembers Christmases that 
only the hand blown ornaments still do--
I know you'll be leaving again
and I know we'll cut off your stump
to remember you-- trust me 
I'll say your name in the morning
with the others-- I don't forget
you and I don't forget how you danced
and held the collected memory of
our family in your arms--
I won't forget how scared you were to
be cut and I'll remember your roots
being swallowed again into the soil--
you-- I call you brother
I call you sister 
I call you Christmas tree
and the feral cats and me will
sing your body into an ornament--
you refract with us-- 
hum quiet Christmas songs
and wait for Santa to eat us
both into crumbs. 
The feral cats ring the diet coke
cans-- and winter breaths gentle
in the windows. 

Everyone goes to the King of Prussia Mall 
shopping for an apology:
We drink bubble tea 
by the blue tile fountain--

We all started to feel
drawn toward the King of Prussia
Mall again-- 
Everyone goes. 
Not out of 
desire but out of a ritual 
planted as pennies 
in our wrists by the evergreen
trees-- this year
we started sleeping on
pine needles by November-- 
a dream of
self-mutilation-- at
least we smelled like a forest
on the mall floor--
Oh! We are born
in December again to learn how to 
wrap an apology not a manger
We drink pink bubble tea 
by the blue tile fountain
when our arms get tired of 
the shopping bags-- 
I say I'm sorry I didn't bring 
any pennies--
You say you don't understand 
bubble tea and that you
were sorry for so many things
you wouldn't know what wrap
with ribbons this year-- 
We played marbles with the
tapioca orbs and 
watched them float around the 
fountain water like 
God had dropped a bag of planets
-- my mother used
wrapped her "sorry"s in banana bread
and rainbow yarn--
and my father wrapped his
in plastic dinosaurs and 
juju bees--
Oh darling was it worth wrapping
at all?
Save the ribbons for when
you hold me down tonight--
I'm trying to tell her 
I'm sorry I'm not warm like
hands around a mug of coffee--
I can't kiss you right-- get stuck in
your teeth like toffee--
I'm not thick or sturdy 
like bricks of fudge but
love you can build a gingerbread
house out of me-- 
We dragged ribbons of receipts
behind us-- worn
like shawls-- these printed 
promises to get better-- we are going 
to get better
this year
-- we're wrapping
an apology this year and we swear it
will at least have a bow--
All my past lovers have
always had the best apologies 
to wrap and never keep--
click me like a silver necklace
and keep me steady in the hands 
of your pocket watches--
there's never been enough 
apologies to teach someone to 
love you-- I want a 
person who can admit they'll
never be as thick as block of fudge
but willing to try to be staircase--
So we picked up the pennies from the
fountain and apologized again
for taking someone else's wishes
even though the water already 
forgot them-- they had already
become a tray of thumb print
cookies or a jar of peppermint bark--
say you're sorry like
the floor of the mall covered in pine
needles where we have to sleep
and get up early to start
wrapping all these apologies--
stay with me and when everyone else
rolls over to dream we can bathe 
in the blue tile fountain--
drink pink bubble tea until
the water turns to tapioca orbs--
undress from ribbons of receipts 
and write "I'm sorry" 
on each other's forearms--
Oh that's all I wanted-- 
if you don't expect me to be a necklace
or the warm belly of a mug
I think I might love you--
You don't need to apologize for
not being a shopping bag
or juju bee--
neither am I-- all I think
I am anymore is bold 
enough to bathe in the 
blue tile fountain with
you-- this year we can 
split Auntie Ann's pretzels on the floor 
of the King of Prussia Mall--
wipe butter on our jeans and 
wait out this season--
apologize with lips and
skin
and linger like toffee 
and the smell of the 
pine needles still pricking
our knees.
Sit by the blue tile fountain with
me-- Oh, and no I don't
understand bubble tea either--
but it's pink like
you and me. 

Bubblegum pillows, my mother's
brown socks, and sleeping as tight
as a root beer barrel.

When I was ten I collected
bubble gum under my pillow--
A showcase furnished by
orphaned nickles and 
green ocean foam pennies
I would scour for coins in the 
depths of warm sock chasms
and the foothills of mismatched
mittens in the laundry closet--
this was no man's land
this was where we all
fumbled in the morning to
put together a person
from clothing that
smelled like a pile of rain
-- sometimes
I wore my mother's socks 
and felt different and sneaky
and older and tired like
a pillowcase--
The dollar store had been my jeweler-- 
I had wanted one of every
color--evidence of my regalia 
from the bottom bunk bed
of the rain forest-- kissed
pillow blue goodnight-- 
these are sapphire raspberry gum
orbits--stripes of orange and 
kiwi stacked like my uncle's
staircase that winces
when you climb it to bed-- 
A handful of prisms and confetti
to chew into distorted rainbow--
this is what it smells like after it
rains-- like wilting caramel 
and pillowcases--
and bed time stories coiling
shiny candy wrapper wrinkles--
slept blow pop scepter and
a dream of my father-- gas station
stops on the way to Fleetwood where
we bottled ourselves up 
in the blankets of root beer barrels--
bubble gum blow a dream into 
the blue again where he discovers
I'm wearing my mother's 
brown socks that smell like
rain or raspberries-- We put-on
each other's shirts for bed--
my father's Beatles ts down
to me knees back into another
bubble gum night
where I count my sugar gems
before bed--
This is my dynasty from under the covers
This is where I tell my brother
bed time stories
of dollar stores and gas stations--
someday I want my living 
room to feel like a dollar store--
with enough quarters you
can buy every piece of me-- 
these jewels were meant to be swallowed
into dreams--
but only if you dig in the 
valley of socks-- make puppets
with your hands and laugh--
laugh like bubblegum you 
were always a princess here--
we don't actually believe in 
quarters in my living room--
we believe in finding
sapphire raspberry gumballs in
the seat cushions and kissing
blue goodnight in a pillow--
walking in the socks of our mothers 
and feeling crafty and sly-- 
and careful not to 
wake the sleeping gem stones
hidden beneath our heads--
My whole family sleeps 
like root beer barrels
and tells bed time stories from
bottom bunks.
Some night I wake up and 
forget that I still have
quarters left over from
the washing machine-- but 
I spent the last ten years
eating my way through a collection
of jewels-- now I sleep
like blankets-- smell root beer
barrels on my wrists--
whisper to my father to turn
out the night light 
in my bed room alone with
the sound of raspberry
and the smell of rain falling
on the doors to
the laundry closet--
I wake up in 
my mother's brown socks. 

My horseshoe crab blood, Puff the Magic Dragon
And how to remember to say goodbye 
in broken conch crowns.

I am only sorry that I never said
goodbye-- a dragon deserves at
least that-- I know-- 
And it's a selfish thing to do
to get taller--
and we knew
each other more than scales--
piled soda tabs and pocked broken
shells enough to make our
dresser drawers into museums--
I've only every wanted to save
broken objects and I got old enough to
find the cracked people the shells
belonged to-- it's us-- it's me 
and you and the topsy shoulders 
of a conch-- the hollowed crown
that once housed the
princess of all the horseshoe crabs--
I used to live by the sea for one
week in July-- sung there
by a blue station wagon or a car radio
or the out of key Kumbaya I craved 
from my mother--
It's funny how she said she didn't sing--
because our mothers
are the only ones who can ever really
sing to us--
was it the year that we were ocean urchins
that we met dragons by the sea?
horseshoe crab siblings tossing each
other for luck-- I called you 
brother and you didn't know
what to call me--
when you're seven you can
make a week into a life time--
Leave only to 
spend Novembers wondering
how you could have lived so long
and so short 
in such a small body
of multitudes-- 
ask youself if you had grown
scales or if it was only
another dream pulled over
our heads by the passing of 
wave--how many times
you must have sung the same songs
until they were merely part of the
way you breathed and the harvest of 
cracked sand dollars-- we would
pretend we lived by the sea
all year round--
born crawling from the surf
on the back of a sung-wing dragon
who lumbered closer in the mist--
we never knew him well-- kissed him
behind willow tree-- passing him
back and forth
until we almost kissed each other 
only we were both horseshoe crabs--
and you were the dragon--
No one knew we were hidden or
that we had watched the waves to
learn how to kiss each other like
water meeting land meeting mosquitoes--
we small bodies of multitudes loving
dragons who we could barely see in the mist--
Oh but could he sing! He could
sing like a mother should
but quiet enough to sustain us
farther than a car radio-- melodious
he puffed clouds
into a night sky to veil the stars 
in their own cotton dress clipped
together by broken conch shells-- 
I hummed our beach a name
Hanolee Hanolee, A land called Hanolee-- 
tattooed my foot print into the
sand next to my mother-- wiped
mosquito bites from my wrists
like watches-- measured time
in the waves tossing and
turning under the eyes of another
impending cloud who kissed into
the night--November autumn-- when the
ground would start to blush every
morning and we couldn't see each
other as well in the mist -- take 
my blue horseshoe crab blood
from the mosquitoes-- paint our
names on the backs of the sand dollars
for our museum--
I still keep 
my knees prickly and purple blushed 
as ocean urchins-- 
hold me dragon boy like an unruly plum--
we found ourselves
tossed into an 
Autumn mist
yet again 
as the song always sings
itself out of tune from my mother
by the vigil of a nightlight 
and a prayer for the tattoos 
rubbed away by another belly
of a horseshoe crab--
We drove home in the blue station wagon
and we left you there
with the dressers of broken 
sea shells, the cotton dress
dangling next to the moon
and our blood lingered in the bellies
of mosquitoes falling victim
to our melancholy--
I'm old enough to know you're not magic--
or at least you're not more magic
than the multitudes I could contain
when I was seven--
oh what would it take to kiss
you again? The blink of a scale?
The tossing of a tide--
the hollowed out crown of a 
horseshoe crab mother
singing 
Puff the magic dragon 
lived by the sea-- and frolicked 
in the autumn mist in a land called
Hanolee--
I remembered to say goodbye
too late like we always do--
it's that our role as urchins? 
To forget and be reminded by
the autumn mist
the car radio
and November. 
That's what broken shells are 
for-- the approximations 
of dragon scales
and our feet tattooed next
to our mother's in the sand.