prayer for living alone

once in the rain all of us met 
on the porch. it was spring &
i was leaving soon. the man who smelled
like pond muck & beef jerky
& the other man who sold guns.
he had short black hair & an infant daughter
who visited only occasionally.
we had never all stood together before.
the tenants of each floor of the 
tall white house on west broadway.
i don't remember what we talked about
but i imagined each of us 
holding our own little 'alone' 
in our hands. mine was always soft
as bubble gum & just as pink.
i spent nights tracing my outline
on the walls & waiting for them to come 
alive. you can get so alone you become
a terrarium. or, rather, maybe you just
discover what has already been there.
the isopods & the centipedes. the words 
hatching beneath rocks. i became 
so vast & so small. the older man smoked
& the smell lingered, captured by
the mist. the younger man ran his hand
through his hair. maybe we mentioned
the tourists coming soon or maybe
they asked to see my dog. maybe
none of us spoke aloud the word,
"alone" but it perched on our shoulders 
& laughed at the impending moon.
a car driving by with headlights 
like angels. i was the first to leave 
as i always am. i do remember that i told them,
"i will see you" which is another way 
of saying, "we are both mammals."
water ran down the street. a brief little river
carrying leaves like canoes. 
aloneness is one of those places you don't
escape. you can't wash it away
with a storm or even with the company
of fellow ghosts. it becomes a part of you.
feather or gills or hair. 

fallen trees at switchback trail

i go to the dead & ask what they have seen.
the switchback trail follows the old coal car route 
that used to haul earth guts to every fire
they could. cities blazed with these organs.
holes in the mountain. 
the storm took down so many limbs.
arms & fingers on the crooked path.
oak leaves like eyelids. 
one tree answers me, "all the smoke." i reply,
"what sound did the sky used to make?"
the trees answer with a soft whistle. 
now heaven is a static tv. i plug my ears 
when i'm out for too long. another tree explains,
"we used to be children." i tell him,
"i used to be children too." remember the day
my brother & i saw a tree topple over
in a late autumn storm. we told her,
"no! please no!" roots & all. in the roots
i saw we saw wedding rings & maybe even
a telephone. what we didn't know
is that all the trees are always talking
to each other & to the old gods & to 
the dead. i don't remember what we did
after the collapse. i should have talked
to the tree though. i should have asked,
"did you decide to fall or did your body
know it was time?" i ask because i am 
a little storm spirit. we live in a time
of endless feet. the underworld sitting
on park benches. i want to collect the pieces.
bring the dead trees home & make my own
frankenstein's tree. birch gills & oak heart.
instead i try to just sit with them.
i rest on the torso of a great maple. 
i ask, "do you mind that i sit here?"
he replies, "we're all wood here." 

water bottle baby

i put the seed in the bottom 
of the bottle & carry it all day. 
it could be any seed but i choose an apple one. 
small & brown-black. 
i have learned that life begins 
when we start weeping.
i squeeze the seed until it sobs. 
remember when someone did that to me. 
i was in the basement. i thought,
"if only there was a mirror." 
the willow trees understand. the goats 
understand. i am growing a child
the size of my thumb. they will stay that size
forever if i can help it. the fire 
in the museum. a window without glass.
i walk through & discover where 
teeth are born. i teach my friends
how to do this too. make your hope
small enough to live
in your water bottle. refill. peer inside
to watch it swim. feed it little bites.
a chocolate chip. a spoonful 
of peanut butter. i have lived on less.
you could really use any vessel
but i think the water bottle is best.
a little terrarium. no one asks why someone
is speaking into their water bottle.
to lose touch with reality is a blessing. 
thank god for the blinking tree & for the child
who does not know life outside
of the water bottle. she has no gender.
she whistles like a dying star. i won't ever
tell anyone her name. she will be here.
upside down. fresh teeth. 
one day, if i have to, i'll swallow her whole. 

the dog

i am home alone when the dog first comes
to the back door with a mouth full of meat.
it has not rained for weeks & i do not have
a finger left to feed her. she wants a television
& a secret. i offer her one of mine. 
it is not enough because it is never enough.
she eat all of our left shoes. she says, 
"this is for your own good." when you come home
you blame me for letting her in. you throw
the shoes at the ugly moon.
i want to ask you, "but has the dog
ever come when you were alone?" you are furious.
we eat plain rice until we're sick. when the dog returns.
the house is full of worms. i am plucking them out
one by one. the dog tells me to stop. she says,
"we need them." i gesture to the damp & rotting house.
i try to explain that we have to survive.
that we have to make mac & cheese & turn
the television on & even sometimes smile
even though there are gnats in the fridge. 
the dog is angry just like you. i don't understand
why everyone is always angry & then i feel like
a little kid again in the kitchen with my mouth full
of meat. you cannot run away from hunger.
you cannot run away from anger even though
i have been trying. 
the dog will come. the dog will find you & howl.
pawing at the back door. you say to me,
"why would you let them in?" i whimper. 
i try to explain how hard it is to watch
an animal beg. haven't you ever been a crying beast?
the dog needs a nail trim & a box of donuts.
she needs a window to watch the cars go by
& a servant to give her whatever she can dream of. 
i whisper to you in the deepest pit of night,
"what if we keep her?" you roll over, having been
asleep & ask, "who?" 
"the dog," i say. "i need to keep the dog." 

100% chance

i did not tell you when i found the ocean
where the field should be.
i walked to the edge.
saw the sharks. did you know sharks
are older than trees?
they peered from the water 
with juniper eyes. i thought maybe if 
i was the only one who knew
that it would all go away.
you were sleeping in. the day before
they had called for rain. 100% chance
& still somehow it had not come.
we stood on the roof with our mouths open.
heavy grey clouds & then nothing.
the older i get the more i feel like
i'm waiting for some kind of glorious event. 
i understand a desire for the rapture
or even armageddon. instead we have
the uninvited ocean & the clouds
that don't remember how
to pour. i hold my breath often. 
i am trying to think of how i will tell you
about the water.
"do you remember the corn?" i might ask
or else i could just peel the band aide off
& say, "the ocean is waiting for us
where the field used to be." i look for signs 
of deer. i hope they have grown gills
& maybe learned how to swim
overnight. we are all forced to change
so quickly. the wind blows & sends ripples
across the deep blue water. 
a husk washes up on the new shore. 

bury the ring

i made an "o" with my mouth
& cut off my lips.
there are rings everywhere. there are
rings around the apartment
& rings i sleep inside of.
the last time you called 
all my hair fell out 
on the kitchen floor. i wept
as i harvested it. we wore the matching rings
all year. a little portal between hands.
sometimes i would wake up 
with yours. your hands like 
wild birds, leading me throughout
the town in search 
of a wedding. no one was getting married.
everyone was having funerals
for their hungers. burying teeth 
inside tiny caskets. calling exes 
& meeting on the bridge 
over the lehigh river. tossing their tongues
into the water. i wanted to join them somehow.
your hands wanted white.
white dresses & white suns. it was a tuesday afternoon
when my lungs told me,
"we have to go." my hands were not yours
anymore. they were mine. two twin nests. 
i wish you could have seen 
the tree i found to bury the ring. 
it was a grove really. three young cedars.
they held hands & i told them
"i can't go through this threshold anymore."
they took the door & undid it. 
i wanted to call you but there was 
no air & my mouth was fully of feathers.
the trees told me before i left,
"you will never see us again."
frantic i almost tried to dig the ring up.
when i say you have to burry 
the ring i mean this. i mean living through 
the goneness. tell me though,
just this once. where did my hands 
take you when they arrived? 
i hope they were kind to you. i hope
they showed you dandelions & gold. 

tile

the crack was small when we first moved in.
nothing but a fracture in the blue tile
of the bathroom. 
white paint was still drying
on the walls of our apartment. we had to live
in the centers 
of rooms. we saw our first cockroach
& i smashed it until it was just a pair of wings.
the building pulsed like an animal around us.
footsteps late into the night
& children knocking on the door 
at sunrise. winter came & i watched 
the crack widen every day in the shower.
somedays the hot water would not kick on
& i bathed with a washcloth
staring down the crack. deep in the coldest months
i first started to hear it laugh. 
you told me you didn't hear anything.
just a giggle & then a full belly cascade.
by spring pieces started to fall out.
i no longer knew why we lived there
or why i woke up so early or who i should
ask for help when the ceiling started
leaking again. frantic one day
i got on my knees & tried to put the tiles
back into the wall. it was not just one piece then
it was a pile in the tub. shards. like ancient teeth.
i wept, wondering if there was a time
i could have stopped this. you came 
& sat with me. above, children ran 
back in forth in their own private heavens.
you asked me, "do you want 
to try & leave?" at first i didn't know
we were talking about the apartment.
i heard "leave" & i thought of steering wheels 
& kicking a hole in the sun
to drink all the tangerine we could. 

leprechaun 

we search for you all day in the forest of shoes.
my brother holds the lantern & i hold 
the trash bag we plan to catch you with. 
i still remember the first stories we heard
of you. our uncle would sometimes
sit in the rocking chair & explain,
"if you blink he is gone." i know so much
in this world is the same. i have lost gods 
& rivers & lovers like leprechauns. we walk.
i do not ask my brother what
he wants to wish for when we catch you.
we find shoes the size of trees
& shoes so small they must be worn
by voles. we try some on. none of them fit
but we find ones close enough. we eat ground cherries.
it is autumn & soon it will be too late
to fix everything. sometimes it already feels
too late. i am going to wish for 
an extra year. one pressed between
the precipice. maybe one more year
in the city without a death cloud.
one more year to look at my warbling face
in the bay. o brother there is so much
i haven't ever said aloud. i think
if i did the roof would rip open
& vultures would come to live among us. 
tell me your secrets & i will keep mine
in a plastic bag in the back of my sock drawer.
we do not find you. the sun spins 
a full cycle around us. my brother weeps.
he says, "you promised he was here."
"i've seen him," i lie. i have never seen you,
my leprechaun. i've seen footprints
& once i heard a laugh. i guess it could
have been anything but then there are the shoes.
who else would make shoes like this?
i tell my brother we cannot give up.
finally we rest in separate shoes. they smell
like a held breath. i dream of you coming to me.
of saying, "i saw how hard you searched
so here i am." of course that does not happen.
in the morning we walk home. empty our pockets
of any shoes. we do not catch you.
i ask my brother, "do you want to tell me
what you would have wished for?"
he says, "no. i still feel like there might be 
a chance" & so i don't tell him mine either. 

staring contest

i do not think it will be fair.
i have not blinked in years.
in fact i remember that last time
that i did. i was kissing a boy
& his hands turned into doves.
we tried to catch them but they got away.
he wept & i promised i loved him anyway.
my life has taught me that
if you shut your eyes
something will leave. my lungs 
decided to become a hawk. i feed them
field mice & apologize the whole time.
if you really want to though
we can sit here & turn each other
to stone. i will be whatever kind 
of statue you need. hell, i could even
be a fountain. spill milk from my mouth.
let's decide on a prize though. 
if i blink first you can have all my eyelashes
& maybe my candles too. 
if you blink first i get your tongue.
you do not think that is equal? alright instead
i will take your hunger. i have
lost my own & i need something 
to burn inside me when i am 
staring down the full-belly moon. 
you will learn to live without it. you will
fill your mouth with birds & eventually,
it will be something like hunger. 
after you lose, we can go walking.
i will show you the places where
i used to like to shut my eyes.
you can try them out & i will watch you.
do not feel sad for me. there is still joy
on the other side. sometimes we eat persimmons
& walk barefoot until the sky is orange again.
sometimes my eyes briefly turn
into beetles. journey in two completely different
directions. i do not ever try to follow them.
i know by the time i go to sleep
they will come home & we will be together
staring at the ceiling all night. 

battery-powered halo machine

my father is always splitting his soul
into smaller & smaller pieces.
he used to feed the shards to me
in the dark of my bedroom.
he sat in the rocking chair
while i tried to fall asleep. my mouth
a zoo of midnight. 
each piece of him tasted like vinegar & honey. 
he is where i learned to grow back thumbs
after cutting them off.
i've seen him lose whole hands to the machines.
he makes monster batteries in the grey morning
when no one else is even awake. 
i've seen him come home with a severed limb
wrapped in newspaper like
a fresh fish. he gave me a pocket knife
& explained, "you should always watch 
it happen." he didn't believe
in closing your eyes. make the loss real.
once, in the middle of the summer,
he said, "i am going to do it."
he started building. his eyes fell out
& then his teeth. my mother called for him
in the yard like a lost cat. i did not
blow his cover. he hid in the crawl space working. 
i told her, "i don't know where he is." he was trying
to finish a halo machine. he said,
"then we can all glow." i wanted
a halo so badly. to walk around 
& have people see how holy i was.
no one ever saw how holy we were.
instead they saw broken window people. 
people held together by a single fraying stitch.
he never did finish. when he returned 
we had to carry him home
in a trash can. he didn't know 
how to talk. his first words were not
"halo" like we thought they would be.
instead, he said, "battery, battery, battery."