you ask me what animal i'd like to live as

i answer, "an animal without a god."
i have woken up with hooves & gills. i have
run into traffic like a deer trying to return.
sat on the telephone pole, talking
to angels that are not there. let my feathers 
turn into red cedars. my body,
the plot of earth where my parents
built us a house from ribs. did you know
how long it takes for a skeleton to surface
from the skin? we have little burials
in our yard & i have yet to see anything
but obsidian. the little underworlds i keep.
i have crawled into holes in the wall.
thrived in the damp under-tongue
of the house. i do not think any of these
ventures were born from desire.
you change as much as you need to 
in order to survive. this is why some of us
do not remember what species we're
supposed to be. yesterday i woke up
& was hunted by wolves. the next day
i was the wolves. i wept when 
i saw my face in a darkened dead television
on the side of the road. i'd like to be lonely.
i'd like to be a herded heart. i'd like to be
with you in the afterlife. i'd like strangers
to gather & stare at my guts 
like a beached sea monster, thinking,
"what on earth was that?" maybe what
i really mean is, "will you be my god?"
i ask that of you one night when
all we have are our knees. the little 
mockingbird that flies out of my mouth.
you kill her after asking her permission
to be devoured. she says,
"anything for this." she ends up
tasting like mulberries. 

orchid maker

so badly i want to be delicate.
i talked to the feathers to hear
how they found their bodies. they answered,
"a rip in the old tongue where
all the sorrow spilled out." the teeth
i traded for velvet. in the outside forest,
everyone is always scrambling for fingers
but i managed to dig up five. a hand. a fist.
i never planned to tell anyone 
of what i was making.
i thought the orchid could be a secret
between me & the wood demons. 
i could watch her grow. close my eyes
& pretend she was a ghost like me.
instead, she could not stop. her faces,
multiplied under the sapphire moon.
i snipped every head i could find. i begged,
"let it be me. let it be me." the last time
i was delicate i found a knife 
in my cheek. the flavor of golden blood.
we run for the legs that love us.
chickens screaming in the yard.
i ran until i did not have a head. then,
i was hovering above the ground 
like a hummingbird.  i used to believe
in angels. now, i know they are not interested in
the dirt or the softness. there were so many orchids.
i had to run from them. still, in almost
every room i find myself, i encounter one
mocking me. they say,
"i know how badly 
you want this." my skin peels away
like a clementine rind & i am left
as a little root system. the orchids 
are not the worst children though.
every once in a while, they will kiss
my forehead & in those moments 
i will believe their skin
is my own. i am unmarred. i am soft.
i am a daughter of the first wound,
pink & blaring. 

millipede 

i give myself a new leg 
every time i'm lost.
it started with just ten
& then i was running away
from a family house.
the mailbox full of hair. & then
i was eating breakfast
at a window everyone in the world
could see through.
my legs grow legs. my legs grow 
hunger to be herd animals.
there is safety in numbers
or so i am told. i imagine standing
in a room of legs.
the legs i need to get out of here 
& the legs i need to get back. 
i have moved at least
once a year since i was seventeen
& this year is the year i will break it.
it terrifies me. what if i am 
in a portrait no one told me
they were painting? what if
my father apologizes &
i have to love him in a new way. 
what if i am not capable 
& instead i wake up & my legs
are taking me somewhere new.
somewhere damp & covered
in moss. i try to be gentle
to the new limbs but sometimes
i'm angry. i see them as 
just another impulse to get out.
to cross the country. to burrow
in the veins of a dying city.
the truth is none of my legs
are good for running. not the ones
on my body or the ones to come.
my legs fold & ache. my legs tell me
i am going to regret something
in the morning. in the end 
they are agents of orbit. 
someone will come & ask,
"where are you from?" & i will
admit, "right here." i point
to my eye. there is, like a snow globe
a perfect replica of the house
where i learned terror
& comfort eat from each other's hands. 
these are the bread crumbs
of my little lineage. a rapunzel rope
out a window. another leg
to reach the sky's collarbone. 

funeral w/o gender

they will say [     ] was a good [     ].
we tape obituaries to our foreheads
& walk around trying to guess
the causes of night. how
one day there was a [     ]
standing in a father's mouth
& now there is just a body.
i want to be remembered 
by whatever my bones will say. 
i want scientists & historians & 
girls with portals in their hands
to argue about what my flesh means.
some people would be distraught by this
& i understand that but i love to be
the troubled gender. the one without
a mouth. follow in the traditions
of an illegible lineage. was [     ]
really a [     ]? or was [     ] a [     ]?
as if there are enough holes 
in the sky to find an answer.
the dead cut out their own tongues.
it is the last ritual before 
departing one life to begin the next.
i am told by the worms 
that there is time for a verdant rest.
someone holding just my skull.
my jaw as rusted as the back screen door. 
tell me what you think you know.

the man upstairs

he says he misses you when you are gone.
sometimes you pretend he is your father.
other times, a toothless dog. he walks
with a huge stick. keeps his teeth 
in a cloud. shows you a scar
on his arm where they, "took him apart."
sometimes you believe he is a ghost.
other times you can hear the radio
through the walls & you can tell he is
listening to a sharpening knife.
you bake him bread one night. 
the hallway smells like rotten wood
& mice. he eat it in front of you
like he's never seen a meal before.
another day he knocks on your door
until the door becomes a pie tin.
you never have enough sugar. he needs
a haircut so you do it on the porch
with nothing but your hands. you pull out
nests & salamanders. overturn rocks.
once you catch him laying in the river
& you think he might be dead. 
he is not. instead, he is trying
to become a bird. isn't that 
what all men upstairs want? you would
not believe how many times i have
lived beneath a man. on broadway 
& then on union & then again
in the licorice dark of a jump rope room.
my father is just about as heavy
as the man upstairs. when i decide to leave
i do not tell him. i am broken hearted 
as if i am him. he plants his spare teeth
between the floor boards. there, on the second floor
of the rowhouse, a tree grows & just laughs. 

escape plans for the dead 

at the old jailhouse
children climb out from between
the bars. there is a lantern man
telling the same story 
of a prisoner who greased himself 
with butter to escape. 
he ran home, unsure of where else
to go. shivered like a gutted windchime
beneath his own bed.
sometimes the rocks will become
an avalanche & sometimes they will
become kissing stones. the roots 
are the veins of a great angry man.
i can never catch my breath
up the hill. bodies of sleeping bears.
they toss & turn at night 
& make the mushroom dogs furious. 
i exist in opposition
to stillness. 
i have paid money to see a cage
full of hands. inside the old jail
there is a replica of the gallows.
a goat hovers either as a sacrifice 
or a promise. what i want to know
is if the roots play cards at night.
if they make bets on who will
lay down in the basement
& who will kiss the warden's daughter
until she turns into a mourning dove.
goodbyes are best made
of glass. a little portal back
into the fog. let's not forget
our penance. the bears are hungry.
i know what we need to do
to keep them asleep. 
the roots twist. handfuls of peaches.
i know you want 
to cover your eyes too. 

neon walking stick

there is no way to tell what is a bug
& isn't a bug anymore. sometimes my
"open" sign will turn to stick bugs 
& i'll have to sell my eyes on ebay again
for a new chance at less panic.
someone pulls the fire alarm 
in the attic & all the horses climb
the stairs. the first time i was paranoid
i think was when i was eight.
the babysitter could hear my thoughts
about becoming a heron & so 
i filled my ears with legos. 
she screamed & i screamed & i hear
nothing for years. the buildings 
that have grown inside me like
little temples. i worship that space
between manias. the breaths of 
moss & yarrow. the "open" sign
walks until it pulses & says,
"goodbye." i know the bugs are
just playing with me. i count them 
in the bathroom & on my face
& in the bed. dear god, i plead with them
to just go & live in the wild green yard.
instead, they expand. street light bugs
& change purse bugs & even bugs
who know the truth about 
how i tried to run away 
& live beneath the roller-skating rink.
sometimes i am grateful that
i see everything & other times 
i want to just be like the paper moths:
flying & spitting dust on the walls. 
nothing is fair but especially
not insects. they come. march 
in a line. make a necklace on the wall.
please tell me you see them too. 

masked men

we used to watch bunkbed movies
on the portable DVD player.
i always wanted to watch the horror ones
& you always wanted to watch romance.
we agreed one night
on v for vendetta. it was december
which is too late in the year
for a revolution. i was falling
out of love with pretending to be
a hydrangea bush. you loved my hair 
as long as i could grow it. your fingers
in my knots. sometimes we talked
about getting married.
i watched the man on the screen.
on the portable player, he was
action figure sized. 
i wanted you to be him which is 
to say i wanted you to be someone else.
someone unknowable. i was in love
with v & evey. their names 
making little currents in my mouth.
i knew i was bisexual
but to see your desires 
kaleidoscoped in motion 
made it real in a way that terrified me.
i thought about standing in
a special kind of mirror
one that would cut us both in half.
not two genders but two runaway selves.
you teased me at the end.
you asked, "do you want me 
to wear a mask?" i flushed.
we turned the lights on in the basement.
i told you, "no." 
at home afterwards 
i showed until the hot water ran out. 
i hoped somehow i could be 
transformed so easily.
instead, i left in a room of clouds.
sometimes i would look in the mirror
& see you standing behind me
even when you weren't there.
i wanted the mask for myself. 

an ode to buffalo bill

they think our joy
must always be stolen. 
tell me you have not dug a hole
in the bottom of your sickness
to capture a scream?
i want to hold a little funeral
for what they say we are. 
for their imaginations
in which we are running in the night,
hunting their skin. instead
we hunt our own flesh. 
i will often look in a mirror
& ask, "where am i?"
oh sweet monster, let's
go where there are no more stories.
where we use sewing machines
to piece back together
the skies they've taken from us.
a broken window. shattered teeth. 
you can tell me 
all the dreams you have
for your body. the silks 
& the furs. i will tell you mine.
they are less extravagant.
i just want to walk on the roof
& sprout feathers.
i have always admired herons 
for their ability to observe.
we can escape if we start
running now. isn't that 
what we have in common?
we're always trying to escape 
from someone. 

car burial 

we hear the kings used to die 
with everything they owned.
when i slept in my car 
i collected small, brilliant joys.
counting the stars i could see
through the moon roof. my little hatch
into the sky. eating a sleeve 
of oreos & brushing the crumbs 
on the floor. every once in awhile 
a sheepman would come
& stare through the windows.
i would pretend to be a doll
until he left. holding as still
as i could. i know i am 
not a king but i have this hunger
to take my tiny delights with me.
it is like trying to walk
with a candle 
on your head.
i hold them like the wrangled necks
of plastic grocery bags.
here are my licorice ropes. here are
my frilled-edge socks 
& a lime green spoon from
the frozen yogurt place. i will
find a place i can just drive 
into the earth. somehow still
i think i will be able to peer
through the moon roof & see
stars in the dark & the soil.
there's no need for coffins
or boxes. i have my rust chariot.
i know i am not a king nor
do i want to be 
i just need to hold this glow. i just
need someone to know 
when they dig me up
that i was not always afraid.
sometimes i laughed 
by myself. i licked my fingers.
i locked the doors 
& never spoke my name 
into the dusk sky least 
it might come & take me.