The raspberries, blueberries, and peach pits
for dinner plates. Wash your hands with seat cushions. 

I don't want to make jam this year.
I don't want a card board crate 
with congregations of blue berries.
One July when I was eight I imagined I was 
on an island of blue berry fields--
that I was picking for my family
in cool cave just over
the shrugging shoulder of our vertebrae of
the Appalachians. 
I don't want bushel baskets of free stone peaches
huddled together like choir girls.
When I was too old to imagine myself 
on an island but not too old
to appreciate the mystic nature
of orchards and summer noons
My mother, my brother, my father, and I
concluded each peach on the ridge looked 
too much like amethyst not to pick--
we greedy-gathered villages, parishes, and
sewing circles and looked
at them all on the kitchen table--
a fuzzy, chalky, fruit skined-tablecloth for dinner.
I still didn't want to make jam or apple butter
or scones. I didn't want to peel them--
never liked the sight of boiled blue berry mush--
the skin unfurled like lavender petals
or amathyst veins--
And then I remember the time when I was
thirteen that my mother and I took
murder on our hands and picked 
raspberries from the farm down
the back road where you couldn't see
Arby's or Burger King or the Mini Golf Course
so we could both pretend there wasn't a 
highway for us to drive home on.
And we didn't take any raspberries
with us-- we sat on either side
of a bush and ate with bloody hands--
the hands of raccoons or pioneers or
beat poets trying to write something
meaningful about death-- made a dinner
setting from the tilled earth mounds.
And there was no raspberry jam.
And there was no raspberry scones.
And there was no teal pints to take home.
There was blood on our hands--
But for that late sunset we escaped
to nothing but berries, and fingers
and blood like amethyst.
We wiped our hands on the 
seat cushions of the station 
wagon on the way home-- kept
our crime in the raspberry
scabs under our cuticles. 

A elegy to instruments I no longer know.

In fourth grade I was completely 
disinterested in everything that had to
do with the oboe other than 
the idea of playing the oboe.
I was the counterculture kid
born with two different colored
Chuck Taylors and short
brown hair stiff from my
father's blue hair gel. To play
guitar wouldn't subvert expectation
enough for my ten-year-old standards-- so
I bit double reeds and learned the 
noise Gila monsters make when they're
trying to imitate jazz musicians--
That instrument shed silver
keys like snake skin and I left
my oboe's carcass in a case
at the back of the music room--
I took on the fabricated audacity
of brass when I played trumpet for
less than a year-- it always sounded too
loud and I worried who I was waking up
with the anxious declarations 
coming from my bell.
I played taps on the porch 
for no one and the birds scattered
from all the limbs of the big pine tree--
I blew out the spit valve 
on the carpet and kissed the
wide mouth piece like a sibling.
I still waltz brielfy with the ghost 
of my brother's fiddle in the
sleep-walk hands of an impatient 
artist who could never wait
for the instrument-- held it down
and told it to sing like a seraph--
I pretend there's not a Bedell
with abalone fret board in 
a body bag in the corner
of my bed room at the house on
Noble Street. I kept a piano as
a mistress-- slept with her on 
snow-day mornings.The blue guitar
was always for my father--
the man who tied my Chuck Taylors 
and told me that John Lennon
was a God and that punk
was a prophecy brought to 
us from sex pistols and 
pinned down by the fret board
of Kurt Cobain. 
But I went to Scarborough Fair 
with my Bedell and I broke
her string sometimes but she
always forgave me-- she
told me that there was something 
to love about a creature
whose fingers were often
slippery and whose thumb
pushed on her neck too hard.
She told me I would be okay
and that I didn't always need to
practice. She told me my lap
was enough for her and 
I am most sorry to my
Bedell who caressed the scars
on my hips and burn mark
on my forearms. She knew I would
never be a musician but
she knew that I could hold
myself together with dead
chord progressions. She used
to love how I bushed her unshaven
legs without a pick-- pulled
my thumb on the base note
and plucked her strings like
a harp-- she thought she could
have been a harp in another life.
And she is a quiet woman
now. I left her my widow
and I make songs with poems now
but she will always be
something like Parsley, Sage,
Rosemary, and times
I pulled music from her throat. 

The art of telling stories about 
people you never knew and 
remembering things they might
never have done.

My father's family
keeps its folklore under
the paper place mats
set on the dining room table
in a house that smells
like Keebler M & M cookies
and rose perfume that
you can taste on the spin
of you tongue.
My father's family tucks
tall tales under the spoon
that has always served 
coleslaw or macaroni salad.
It falls off plastic forks 
and in between the practice 
swings of a decades of 
Philadelphia Phillies swings.
That's when you can get
my great aunts to talk
about dead people.
And Aunt Flo will say something
just sad enough to cause a silence
and Aunt Mary will laugh and nod
her head. But, it's My father who
has always told the best
stories about my pop pop. 

I don't know how much 
I really would have liked
my grandfather in practice
but I love him as a character
and I'm hoping someday 
he will drop a bomb
on a whale in a short story
of mine-- find himself again
in a bar in Brazil far
away from where his brother
was collecting purple
hearts in his pockets
at Okinawa. Take snowy owls
from bird cages for my 
father catching turtles
like a stamp collection.

I don't know if my grandfather
would like my short white hair
or my blue lips-- if he
would eat banana bread
or chocolate chip cookies or
if he would change the radio
when we drove in the car together
or if we would watch thunder storms
Really, we'll never know 
if he really blew up a whale
in world war two. He might
have been discharged for
a senseless retreat back
to a home an ocean away
Blew up a sperm whale
with his memory to relocate
the folded flag of his
brother to the attic
next to the Christmas
decorations. 

I do know that my father and my brother
can fit into a pair of his jeans
and that the night he died
he had opened a fresh bottle
of whiskey.   
I know he wore
glasses and that 
he fell asleep
and never woke up.
If only we all went like 
that. Quiet legends for
three grandchildren un-named.

I know that he lived long
and short. I know I would
have loved him in some way.

The irony of empty living rooms
and feeling alone in the world.

I like the living room
of the house I grew up in.
It has a different color on
every wall and I like
to wake up to it empty.
I wipe the counters like a waitress
or a tour guide to a museum
that no one remembers to visit--
drink coffee like a World War One
veteran trying to remember 
what he had fought for and who
he used to drink coffee with
when he came back to a small town
that only had one church.
I think we all crave sadness
not in masochism but just to be human.
We look for spaces that have always
tasted like stale cheerios
and most of us long for some 
sort of a past made up
of cut-corner memories. The 
pieces of a scrap book
we make to tuck under our
pillows and read ourselves "goodnight."
I re-tell the story
of watching a lightning storm
on the back porch of the 
house we rented on Main Street.
There were bees on the porch
and I sat between my father
and my brother who talked mostly
with his eyes.
It was the house next to the park.
The house with a sliver of a
backyard that we all knew 
was enough kingdom for
any seven-year-old with bare feet
and hair wet from a garden hose.
I have told that story a thousand ways
but I leave out the crying.
I say my father was a lightning rod--
my brother has always been a rabbit--
I say my mother was the windowsill
and that she watched us from inside.
I leave out the crying.
I know it had been for something
but over the years I round out
the edges of a tale of two
children who were eternal.
I find myself saying, "I don't
remember why I was crying,"
even when I do-- I don't want
to repeat getting hit with broom handles
and the scratch on my cheek
from door hinges undone--
pull thorns from my heels
and make a crown for my head.
Oh and we were all just human.
I think we're too scared of 
feeling sad. I don't want you to 
tell me it will get better because
some mornings what we need is a 
sadness that melts like caramels
on sundown sidewalks.
I want tell myself I'm alone
in the expansive infinite wingspan 
of other people--
I want to cry when the there 
is a breeze in an empty living 
room that reminds me of
a memory I'm making up as
I got along-- my scrap book is
my own and I will remember what 
I want to-- I can still cut 
my hair with scissors if I 
want to.
Don't tell me it will get better--
tell me that it's sad.
Tell me that you know I like
stale cheerios.
Tell me you remember
the curtains differently
and I'll say
"So did I, so did I."

Blue Aliens, Vampires and Viking Crafts to Venus.

I think what I miss the most is being 
a blue alien.
My uncle never questioned me
when I confessed to him I was a blue alien--
he knew that four-year-olds
aren't old enough to lie.
Or maybe I just miss how I used to eat 
honey mustard sauce on chicken fingers 
and how my uncle recited my order-- knew 
I needed exactly 8 ketchup packets
when we came around to a window
that was also a portal to a space station
somewhere outside Venus.  
--Kethchup packets are like pocket watches
or pillows. We took
vacations to Burger King 
and to the diner that no longer
has an airport.
Today it has the scarce rib cage of a hanger 
and a runway to the edge of nothing--
fall off and find the star where I was from.
I told you we would take
an airplane one day. Those Bi-planes 
used to congregate like honey bees 
out the diner windows.
I told you it would write
my name in smoke like you see in cartoons.
My technology was advanced
(even for a blue alien)-- I was a 
creature of tin foil time machines and coat
hangers that steered Viking ships
at carnivals. Oh! And how could
I forget that you were a vampire?
And even though I was an alien
I drank blood sometimes
from bar counters that
were also intergalactic confessionals.
I would not call us an unlikely
pair. No one really 
believed that we were a vampire
and a blue alien but you
understood enough for the both
of us and everyone else
who ordered club sandwiches 
from swivel chairs at the diner
that is still somewhat
of a space ship.
And yesterday a girl with
a pink romper told me
in the honestly only four-year-olds
have that I look like an alien--
Which makes sense.
Because I am. I guess
that makes you a vampire.

What will we say to each other when
I've told you all my stories?

I have recently developed the
completely rational  
fear of running out of stories
to tell-- yesterday
when I peeled open 
my notebook like a clementine--
picked citrus from 
under my nails--
I found
every page was a joker--
you don't play black jack 
with jokers-- and I'd 
lost my queen of hearts
to the card counter
who also waters the 
roses I walk past skeptically
when it's still morning
to me but everyone else
thinks that the sunset means
dusk. I think it's all just 
always been a sunrise
even in the hollow
bird bones of the new moon--
and where those jokers are
is where I had written
about us yesterday-- I had
called you "you" like
I always do because when I
say "You" I really mean 
"You with the broken flipflop"
or
"You with the hair in a 
tight bun that looks like
a chestnut"
or
"You who I was in love
with in sixth grade"
and 
"You who I will meet someday
in line waiting for
a strawberry sundae
that smells vaguely like
clementine peels."
You see I feel citrus 
in your collar when you
kiss me and I wonder who else
you have loved-- and I'm
not jealous-- I'm just
finding there are maps
I'll never read about
you-- there are foot
steps that not even your
mother remembers in the infinite 
driveways of our
crackled tangerine skin sideroads.
Park here over night and
sleep in the car as if
it's a hotel room
and I'll tell you stories
about the makers of 
billboards  advertising God.
We can use the jokers 
as coasters for our
empty coffee mugs--
fill them with black coffee
and Splenda packets. 
If I run out of things
to say I can always pretend
my deck of cards is a 
prayer book-- just need
to make stories faster than I
can write them down
in the form of orange peels
out my car window--
You don't need to pretend 
like they're all good.
And if you've heard me tell
the story before
pretend like it's new for me.

I say 'i love you' too much too little and in the 
wrong ways.

Sometimes I feel like I'm saying
'i love you' more like a plea
or a prayer than a declaration--
like a petition on a paper
airplane to God to let you remain 
with me long enough
to understand that you are
worth telling lies to.
You are worth pretending
that dandy lions are flowers
-- and never have i told
someone 'i love you' and regretted
it. See I say it too much
because the things I mean
you can only find in between the
light hum of the 'o'
when we say 'love' dove-tailed
to the end of making pancakes 
without plates or smiling
at you like you know my
name is Sarah and I'm the wife
of a prophet but
you can call me princess of
prayer books in breast pockets.
i say 'love', dropped above me like
a crema drip of clouds
to veil Mars like the bride
he never wanted to be--
i love you like white glove
mothers on Sunday-- like 
doves at weddings and doves
at funerals and doves made
of white chocolate.
i can't apologize for there
only being one word to explain
how I feel about every single
person i ever met-- no 
it doesn't mean i think your perfect--
yes i say it too much--
no i wouldn't change you
to change you would mean i didn't
really love you-- and maybe
i can't love you like kisses
or a pancakes-- but i know
i can love you like a prophet's
wife. Eat the doves for 
breakfast with me and i'll 
be a dandy lion and lie
for you and lie about being 
something worth planting
on a windowsill.
I say 'i love you'
like a plea-- grow it
in the pots on the porch and hope
no one notices that it's 
always white wishes 
like dove downy. 
 

How many years have you lived in this body and how
do you still know it's yours?

Even though i'm younger
than all the trees around my house
i still feel it my right to pick
their leaves-- peel off
the veins like string cheese 
from lunch boxes left out in 
the heat of a station wagon. 
Even though i'm younger
than any river rock that
has used the palm of my
hand as park bench i still toss
the roundest pebbles into the creek like
stale dinner rolls
the week after Christmas Eve 
when no one wants to pretend
it's still a holiday-- i like to think
i'm tall sometimes and sometimes
i forget that i'm the kind of creature
who could slip off a tree branch 
and close myself like the
heavy thud of a text book 
on the linoleum floor of my 
high school lunch room. 
i can't count the rings imprinted
in pirouettes around and around my waist
to tell you how old i am anymore
but i can tell you i can count
my ribs and the thin grins of
scars on my hips. 
i can count my eye lashes
if i work up the patience
and i can count the sinews
of leaf veins-- extracted 
to replace my own-- 
i know it is mine because
each ring tastes like the rim
of a tea cup or a coffee mug
i know it is mine
because i've used it to sew
soy beans-- taken the hoe
across my forearms--
i always plant too early 
in March--
i was never good with plants--
they always die or fall
out windows.
i like where i live though--
i like maple leaf veins 
of my thighs and the
stretch marks that resemble
the lines God sketched on
watermelons.
it has taken a number of moon blinks
but i can tell you today that 
i do know that these limbs
are at least mine today, this morning--
i am something of this body--
and maybe i have dominion over
the veins of trees 
and the potato stomachs of the river rocks
because i had been that body too--
but we will save my dissection for another 
day-- and for today i will say
that someone knows how long
i have lived in this body
and that they will count my
pirouettes when it's time
to pass this body to someone else. 

I pray like pink sticky note memos
and they answer with a sunset--
dropped like an egg yolk.

When I was younger and 
I used to pray on my knees before
bed-- back when I thought
God spoke English and could
write back to me on the 
green chalk board of my forehead.
I used to be able to write monologues 
to God-- I would lay out my fore arms
like notebook pages
and carve "Hail Mother,
Hail Mary, Hail doves
and orange peels and the smell
of January snow day mornings 
that make living rooms into chapels.
Dear God I said this morning
I'm sorry I haven't been to church
it's been at least three weeks 
since I last said anything to you
besides apologies 
between tied shoe laces
and washed cereal bowls. I don't think of
myself as a sinner-- I don't think
of anyone as a sinner actually--
maybe I'm  a windup bird
or a jewelry box that
stopped holding pearls and I'm sorry
that I mostly just place
sticky notes on the clouds
and under the maple
tree leaves these
days-- They usually
happen when I remember to say
"thank you for giving me
hands and eyelids and
a nose that resembles a Lima bean."
"thank you for making bridges of
the arches of my heels and 
thank you for the steam off
the coffee mug in the morning
when summer is hot enough
to brew chai tea."
I used to think God didn't respond.
I used to think he listened
and nodded and picked up another
piece of notebook paper
torn from the spiral bound wrists
of thirteen-year-olds--
but he answered me last night
as he does every night
in the elegant cheek bones of a sunset
or the lullaby of
mist after a thunderstorm
or the drifting of snow
across the graveyard of
a soybean field--
laughing like the hot days
in autumn.

We've all made music from
out of tune ukuleles and green penny whistles
from the passenger seat of car
rides backwards to our first kiss.

When I ask if you could sing for me
I don't mean you have to sing
with lips or with a harpsichord--
I only know about harpsichords from
the button on my 12-key electric piano
that taught me about the glory
of caroling to an empty room--
That piano was a trumpet and french horn--
a guitar and a banjo--
Did no one ever teach you that
you can play any instrument like
a first kiss?-- clumsy, exhilarated
and terrified-- play me 
a song about trying to
unbutton the collar of someone
else's shirt on the bassoon--
I don't know how to hold it either
but you can pretend you 
were born with a double reed
in between your teeth--
play me "happy birthday" using
one string of an un tuned ukulele and
I will tell you that that is
the sound that geese make
when they're calling for each other
before it rains.
Call for me however you see fit
and I'll be waiting with
my capo on the third fret
of a acoustic guitar that used
to be my hips-- we can both
pretend we know more than 
the approximation of a g-chord
and we can be untrained street performers
who buy apples with quarters from
newspaper boy caps.
Sing about first kisses and 
untrained fingers on the
neck of a string bass--
and I apologize that I'm already married--
my first kiss was to my husband
on the playground in first grade
after we made a worm grave yard--
but I played my own guitar chords 
before that-- lost my virginity 
to an unplugged Rickenbacker  
wearing an over sized Beatles t-shirt
in the living room.