How long has it been since you sang for yourself, for someone else?

There is a confessional 
that I call my car windows--
when they spread open like 
firefly wings on the ride
to the room with 
my cast iron tea set still standing guard
over my end table. 
on the ride to the room with my incense
soot still smudged into
the carpet like ash Wednesday--
and to dust I will return
in the form of pencil shavings
and snicker doodle freckles
I was was born dust so 
I only return to confetti--
-- I drive the way that
I know without maps-- the way 
stamped with tire wheels 
into the backs of my wrists-- and
there are twenty-questions unanswered
and unasked those still rest
written in the
dotted yellow lines of
the roads that crawl like
centipedes or the snipped
ends of my mother's knitting--
only here do I tell God
how much I have done wrong--
I speak it aloud with the windows
rolled down to swallow my sins--
sift each offense through the
divine corn husks that are 
still hopeful about a long days
and still seal themselves in
sleeping bags when the night is
cold and tastes like autumn and caramel 
and death.
When they die they'll take my sins with
them and maybe they'll pass
them onto to God when they do.
I've never been a good daughter
to God or to my father who
held me like a loaf of banana bread
or my mother who could braid
my hair like Challah--
but I at least I can drive
a confessional and at least
I can sing about everything
I've done wrong and everything
I don't have an answer to 
just for the wind 
to wipe them away like a thumb
clearing incense soot from
my cheek bones and 
putting it on my forehead
as a reminder. 

We've spent all this time trying to be a human.

I woke up today with the resolve to be
totally and completely human just for once--
by noon I found myself entangled the arms of
another mistress that was also a hydrangea 
bush and I regret to say that I had
already fallen into my tendency of
turning back into a plant or vine
and thinking too much
about whether or not
I had ever seen a living star
or if I had only seen memories
of a light long turned off
in the ceiling of God's studio apartment--
I have never needed to eat-- so I
worry about things like the sun
that keep my hair white and dab
freckles on my cheeks like a splatter 
art kit-- I cut off my roots
so I don't dig too deep in the soil--
get my knees caught on buried
pocket knives and chicken coop 
wire from the farm that still sows 
ghost soy beans underground.
I wonder if those farmers ever neglected to be human.
Isn't that what we're all trying to do?
Trying to remember to be human-- it's hard though
Some of us turn into butterscotch krimpets
or the warm space between a hot stack 
of pancakes at the diner with the swivel chairs--
I've been told that some of us have
a tendency to grow yellow in the pages
of a sun ripened books-- I have
been a raisin memoir and the peach pit
of a poem.
I have already given up on today.
I have bent my spine in handle 
of a coffee mug.
I believe in us you know?
I believe that despite it all
we are in a sense human-- even if
not all the time. And maybe some days
we can both be plants and by sunset
we can weave a grape vine
just to cut it down. There's something
human about grape vines 
and poison ivy--so maybe you were
the mistress in the hydrangea--
the petals always looked like
your smile anyway-- 
and who says I can't turn back on the
stars to use as my night lights--
God wouldn't mind. 

The boldness of mismatched socks 
and forgotten white bras.


I don't want to be ten again
because I know too much now.

I don't want to be ten I just
want to worry about baking enough
chocolate macadamia nut cookies
to sell at the farmers market
on Saturday and pug dog necklaces
and what flavor of chap stick I 
want to wear-- and it will still always
be blue raspberry--
I want to worry about shoe laces
instead of frayed skirt hems
and stocking runs up my stomach
like a surgical incision. I want to worry
about forgetting to wear
the one dindgy white bra that scratches
under my arms and makes
unnecessary crisscross lines
beneath my softball shirts-- plague
me with strap sliding anxiety.

I don't want to be ten again
but I want the luxurious abandon
of the body of a ten year old. I want
to be confused by every turn of the
hair on my chin-- I want to worry
about growing a beard. I want to 
shave my legs like a sinner--
get down on my knees
and praise the swelling of
my hips. I want to fill
the popcorn bowl of my stomach
with corner brownies and
the delicate cuisine of stove top
macaroni and cheese kits--
I want to eat frozen waffles
on the porch like a goddess
legs spread apart like a 
unfinished book chapter on
the shoulder of the couch-- 
I want to sit the same in 
creek jeans and pleated skirts.

I don't want to be ten
because I know too much now
but I do want her to know
that I don't want her to know
too much-- I want her to 
go on beinng enamored of
every terrible curl her
body takes--feed her thighes
with everything that
ever tasted like love and forget to
wear bras while mismatching
socks on purpose.

The jungle spy head quarters of Walmart in Temple.

I'm kind of embarrassed to admit
that when I feel lonely I go to supermarkets--
When I feel out of control I grip for
the worn bar of a shopping cart--
not the little shopping carts for newlyweds
and one bed room apartment owners
who have two golden retrievers and a tabby--
I'm looking for the ones that are Mom sized that
seven year olds can ride on the fronts of.
I don't shop for tank tops or shoe laces--
I want to run my fingers over bokchoy
and oregano and smell freshly watered
parsley from the little boxes in the
produce isle.
I want skinny cow ice cream sandwiches
like my mom used to buy.
Yes, yes I actually feel calmed by Walmarts.
We didn't go to Walmart often 
when Billy and I were in elementary school
(for my mother's own sanity I imagine) 
because Walmart was never just
a super market. We set out with a goal to
find whatever we were imagining
and painted that reality over ever aisle
in the shaky frayed brush strokes 
of a seven year old safari princess
with a light up wrist watch
and her four year old brother
who thought she was nothing short 
of a nebula--
We wanted to walk in the Amazon Rainsforest
but did't want to think about the mosquitoes
or the malaria-- we set out
on spy missions with no goal
other than an excuse to roll ungracefully 
on the cold tile floors and collect
the dirt of all the cuff buttons
and tiring white sneakers.
We were the collected rations
from the sample stations. Cranberry granola crumbs
and the corners of pretzel bites.
We stacked the little cups to form castles
on the floor beneath wracks of plus
sized women's coats on clearance.
Oh! and we had never been lost despite
having gone to the costumer service station
more than once to report that we were missing--
we just enjoyed the power to summon 
our mother using the voice that boomed through 
the clossal bones of the store like God
or Jesus. We had never been far from
the squeaky wheeled cart of our mother--
But, no, I lied-- we were completely and totally
lost. We fell in a labyrinth of indecisive 
imagination and impending car rides home
with melting ice cream sandwiches.
Yes I still get lost like that in Walmarts, Giants
and Shop Rites and there are spy missions
I store for if I ever find myself seven years old again--
and yes I still want to report myself
missing at the customer service desk
to summon my mother with the voice
of a God I've been searching for
the voice of but she's not here. It's only me.
It's me and an empty shopping cart
and boychoy and parsley and ice cream sandwiches.


 

Have you walked the circumference of the world
like a brown leather belt pulled tight with 
a rusty buckle? 

because you seem like the kind of person
who would want to walk under belt-loop bridges
next time i walk all the way around the world
and back you should join me-- you would like it
if you like to see everything but
still stand far enough away to feel alone.
it's easier to walk all the way around because
then you don't have to remember where you are 
to get home -- and people ask
me if i've walked on water-- and sometimes i tell
them that i do-- that i have feet like those water
bugs-- but really i go on the heads of the fish
who follow me till i reach
the gravel edges of the forest path sprinkled 
like confectioners sugar
on the collar bone of my Pennsylvania wetland--
we wait for the blue heron who
walks with me in the guidance of a little brother--
only until i reach the Mexican border
which i cross with ease because they know
me-- they've seen be walk around before
and i take a sip from a cactus flower
which is more bitter than sweet like i thought it would 
be-- i had imagined it would taste like
blue cotton candy but it was more like old licorice
rope and lemon-- it's good enough to keep us going and
you know what's funny? it's shorter than you think!
the whole world fits in the blocks between my house
and the soy bean field that once grew corn 
all splotchy like a mustache-- it can fit between
the North and South poles of a main street
and between my house and your
welcome mat-- i don't ever wipe my feet
when i come home even though they're still
wet from fish heads and beaches and
broken she shells we pretend were never whole
to begin with
so i hope you don't mind the mess--
i come home to the world and walk
round it too.
it's best that way. that way i don't
forget how small a waist we all have
that i could fit under belt loop
bridges and wait for herons there.

I'm running away to the backyard.

I know that I'm supposed to be over 
the notion of running away at this point
but I have to admit that I have packed
two bags of Milano cookies-- three
potato rolls-- microwave mac & cheese
and three bags of Macintosh apples and
they bruise easily so I can
only trek to the area behind the garage
that I've always imagined as a garden.
Build my bed from dying dandy lion
firm-frost grass sofa--
and spear mint petal pillows   
And it's cold but I have a blanket.
I'm thinking over the next few years
I could build a life for myself
from the soil still 
laced with wires from the chicken
coup and vibrations from the 
throat of the cistern to keep me company.
I'll talk to the cicadas as I fall asleep.
We can call ourselves neighbors
if you want and if not I can make this
island of weed and quashed hula hoops. 
I tried this once before-- you know?
only I was in sixth grade and I had 
more Milano cookies and I had forgotten
a blanket. I lasted an hour
this time I might stay here for
two-- but night always makes house
windows look like home even if you don't know them--
we can find home somewhere and I
don't even eat Milano cookies anymore
but I know that you love them.
I'll be done running away soon
enough. I'll eat spear mint
and plant the seeds of the apples--
and I know it will never be a tree but I
can pretend it will be when I return
decades later.

Are you sorry for the lies you told 
when you were eight?

I was not sorry for being a saber 
toothed tiger seated besides
Anthony Burke on my red dot--
licking my paw to intimidate him--
nor for stealing the last oreo
from Jackson Roberts lunch--
you all knew it was me-- 
Let me be-- feel-- smell like a river
washed in the creek water I was born in-- 
I still feel like I walk as a tall tale--
I am  the singer of the Allosaurus herd--
we eat Tyrannosaurus Rex
and I was late to school today
because I ran into a dragon--
he's my pet now and he's waiting
patiently in my closet-- no mom
I'm not feeding him the sunflower seeds--
I'm just sharing them with him
from a tea cup--
Let me be
I still sometimes
tell people what they want to hear
and the only thing you can know 
I mean anymore is  "I love you--
I love you, I love you,"
Not like a tall tale but like the
truth behind all of our mouths when
we were eight-- I don't think
we were capable of lies
I am a dragon slayer now-- a dragon
slayer and pixie and a girl
I can be a girl if you want me to be
I'll grow my hair long until 
I have to cut it off again in braids--
Rapunzel cut her hair to forget
the feeling of the prince who pulled it
down down down--
Let me be
When everything else fails I'll just 
be the saber tooth tiger seated
next to the boy
who is trying to be normal
while I try to be eight years old 
in the body of a person
who has never stopped lying about
dragon and dinosaurs 
still munching on sunflower seeds
in the closet. 

 

The ones who play with water.

I have always believed water is magic.
I learned young-- maybe watching from
windows slide between the glass and the
front of my mother's legs as she stood too
singing "Pray for us, pray for us, prays for us."
Saint Mary, Saint Clair, Saint Augustus,
Saint William, Saint Joseph, Saint Sarah--
Saint Sarah who would always be a princess--
Saint Mary, Saint Mary my mother
Saint Mary-- and there was the statue 
with her feet that kill snakes
and every time I walked into the church
I looked at her and the snake
-- I thought she was beautiful--
watched the babies and the water and I
always wished they would baptize me 
again in a bathing suite so I could
stand in the fountain-- I'm a person
who wants to be submerged-- and that comes
from creeks and the cathedral of the
forest where my father told me
parables of his own mischief and I walked
on slime stones in my algae toes-- peeled
frogs from the holy water to kiss
them and pulled back my water tendril hair.
I was the last to leave the pool in a thunderstorm
let God strike me with thunder-- 
blare like a bullfrog in lightning
smooth my veins into the water and when 
I die I want to be water so that no 
one will believe that I am gone-- feel
me in the mist more than the rain
even though I want to live my
life like the baptism of the July downpour
I was born of.
I am the child with the soaked hair and
bare feet. I catch rain drops in my
mouth and drink from the creek
with my hands-- still carry holy water
in my lips and dip my index finger
to make the sign of the cross
before I enter the pool during 
the thunderstorm.
I have always believed in water.
From the window I'm still humming
"Pray for us, pray for us, pray for us,"
while watching God baptize the parking lot.

Jazz foot steps of summers only left
in our veins.

I have two brothers
One is seven the other is sixteen.
BUT sometimes I feel
like a have one brother and one accomplice,
sidekick, and scout-- one partner to
walk the parameters of our half--acre yard
as if it were something to guard--
A cement stepping stool out of the ocean
on a military base in the Caribbean--
The older of the two is Billy--
he is and always will be my accomplice, 
sidekick, scout-- scapegoat to my fifth grade
experiments gone array--
There is something passed between
people who share summers with each other--
some sort of a understanding that
was injected in our shared veins
in chlorine fireworks and chocolate chip sandwiches.
We had mastered cabinet cuisine--
lunches of a pizza wraps and ketchup toast
sustained two explorers of day time television
and our own backyard--
and there were still things left undiscovered--
In the summer everything is infinite 
and yet already over-- we woke up
each morning to the visage of and older self
staring back in the mirror somewhere
in the the shower fog
reminding us that summer is as long as 
the Susquehanna and shallow as the
creek that we used to pretend was the world--
the creek that's other side was elsewhere.
Billy and I have blue rasperberry Popsicle veins.
We ate celery out of boredom and we're still
waiting for our peace prizes in the mail
for our work in Dragon orphanages.
We built tepees from tri pods and held
potato roll feasts at sunset.
I'm still sorry for making him drink tooth paste
and I'm still sorry I've never been
able to tell him that sometimes he's my older
brother too-- through nights of a bed sheet
tents in the attic when the house would
crack her knuckles to wake me up--
I would nudge him with my foot to wake him up
so that I wouldn't be alone. He wouldn't
say anything-- just open his eyes like
a rabbit and every monster in the creases
of the room not touched by night light
would quake at the notion him.
And I would go back to sleep.
And he would mumble about the next
day and what we would do before
resting his head on my shoulder
and cradling a stuffed shark like a 
life raft.
We walked through more summers
than we have years-- we walked 
to the foot steps of Jazz fingers
and bass strings yet strung--
we walked in bare feet and dirt
and the cracked cement on the porch--
between our father's beer bottles
and the corpses of attempted summer gardens--
parched parsley in between our toes--
we were children of thinking 
about how beautiful were the weeds. 

My father and I share a black belt.

When people ask me for a fun
fact I lie and tell them about my
black belts-- and they think
it's funny because I'm short
and spaghetti veined. I'm stringy-
like flimsy hair of banana 
peels or clementines. I've always smelled
like a corn husk doll and I startle like 
a blue bird even though my father
taught me how to spike my hair like
a blue jay.

But I've never been a blue jay-- 
Sometimes at night I would crawl
up the stairs on all fours as if
descending back into the primordial 
soup-- turn the corner and flinched to see
my father in the same night saunter--
holding a beer bottle like a door knob
and he would say "There's my black belt--
all those lesson and your only defense
is to fall on the ground."
And he would laugh and I would
laugh different.
And we would say nothing more. 
But it's not true. I am not a black belt.
I'm half a black belt-- 
the other half wears his cut out
of fake leather-- practiced katas with me
in the strangled hair of the back yard
using stones as markers--
my father new the forms before I did.
My father was a sensei and a sparing mat--
cut my hair short so I could
"fight like a boy" and I always
wanted to fight like boy I've 
never fought like anything other than
a pixie-- maybe I liked the katas
best because the grass was cold on
my feet in the yard or maybe I liked
to mess up sometimes so me father would
correct me-- because I liked the sound of
his voice-- maybe I've never been
a black belt at all-- I've always been
a person of white cloth and 
short hair-- 

When I broke the last
board during my belt ceremony I missed
the first time. I wasn't sad because I had
missed. I didn't care.
I cried because my father had saw me 
miss and I was so scared
that he had trained with me for nothing.
I looked up. I remember my foot hurt.
My hair was sweaty banana string
shoe laces on my face--
He was still smiling and standing
crossed armed in a patient stare.
And I broke it--

we broke it.

My father and I share a black belt.