frozen section

i want to be snow in the heaven field.
the machines are empty of every 
little bright remedy. fingers cold.
i was promised a winter & instead 
we have the empty street. the car weeping.
when i first heard the world "pandemic"
i thought we were just window shopping.
all the good deaths are written in a list to be read
on a microphone only the rocks
are listening to. i call you. i beg 
for another place to go. i search the grocery store
frantic, as if a tub of ice cream is all we need.
drive to the other side of the island. 
everyone holding their heads like red balloons.
i watch so many people let go. join the clouds.
sirens. blue raspberry halos. finding 
the treat i was looking for. my mom
used to bribe us with ice cream sandwiches 
to try to get us to sit through all of mass.
everything becomes holy when you think
you are going to die. i buy them 
& hold them, letting them melt
in my hands. unsure of how to vanilla
our way out of this. picture all my loved ones
walking in frozen section. hands to glass.
fog to write our names in. the lines 
turn into spider legs. a man on the phone
saying, "no no no." a child taking off
his mask to find a pile of garnet hiding there.
i eat one ice cream sandwich in the car.
lick my fingers. consider what it would mean
to never return. turn the car into a whale
or at least a mango. my breath fogging the glass. 

the rock at garvey's point

we should never have left.
all the gulls were on their cell phones.
they were calling their insurance companies
& begging for help. i was doing the same
earlier that week. your sunglass 
were portals into the night world
where neither of us needed to sleep.
waves against the shore. each washed up 
boots & bridal gowns. veils & zippers. 
we stayed on our perch, sitting side-bye-side
on the largest rock in the sand. 
i would venue to call it an island. 
you talked about us buying an apartment
in brooklyn. i talked about the taste
of brine. the half-flat tire. i listened to hungry trees
telling each other nostalgia stories
of when there were more roots
& less catastrophe creatures like us.
after we left the little ocean park
we loved to drive the rich people lands
where everyone was shiny. 
old mansions & new mansions
& mansions at risk of falling
into the water. people who owned boats 
& boats who owned people.
i still crave the rock at garvey's point. 
its warmth. it's humming. if we would
have stayed i think i could have become
a glorious lichen. you could have seen me
all sea green & ruffled. instead,
we argued about mosquitos 
in a stop & shop parking lot.
a men ate his hot dog dinner, sitting
on his car's bumper only a few
feet away. i wanted to talk but little stones
kept coming out. they filled my pockets.
you had headlights for eyes.
all the rich people houses 
glowed as if harboring angels. 
we did not make it home until
everyone else in the world 
was asleep. the rock letting the waves 
kiss away her throat. if it is still there
we could go back. i hate that impulse i have.
the little insatiable mouth telling me,
"i think we were real there."

feminism 

in high school, my boyfriend had a car
full of beetles. the problem was 
only i could see them. they were the kind
that shone in the afternoon light
like alien diamonds. i would say things like
"i'm not a feminist, i just think everyone
should be equal." he would laugh.
the beetles would laugh. we would go & park
at an abandoned something or other,
roll down the windows & die just a little bit.
once, his parents were out of town 
& the house also filled with beetles. 
i had gotten good at ignoring them.
do not flinch when they march across your thighs. 
he grabbed me like a potato roll. he joked,
that he liked me best when i was inside out.
when no one else could see us.
we had matching pajamas. sometimes,
i mistook him in the dark for myself.
a shadow or else a reflection in an unknown mirror.
maybe that was the point. i cooked for him all the time.
his favorite was fish. butter & lemon.
he said, "this is what you should do every day."
his fork like a new tongue. ceiling fan breeze. 
the beetles crowded the counters.
glinted in perfect lines across the glass table.
often i wonder how many ways
i let him hate me. i lead by example. i want you 
to cover your ears. i am telling you 
the deep-bellied self-blame thoughts.
instead, what i should tell you is that
i still see the beetles. they were not the problem.
they were the harbingers. they said,
"you are a feminism." i hated when they tried
to tell me that. i wept. i crushed them. i said,
"i am not beautiful. i am not a..." i didn't finish the sentence. 
driving down the highway twenty miles
over the speed limit, he said, "i am going 
to make a ghost out of you." not hearing him
i asked, "what?" & he replied, "i meant a girl."

ghost tourists 

i used to never lock my door
until i met you. 
when i lived in the mountains
truthfully, i liked to let the spirits in.
i am not someone who puts salt
at the door or even a jar of beans.
i lived alone & i appreciated the company.
they would treat my living room
like a gift shop. stolen picture frames 
& jars from the shelf. 
only once in awhile did they take something
that i actually missed. one night, a camera
& another time the only physical picture
i ever had of us. sometimes though
i think the ghosts take what we know
we can no longer carry. i never questioned 
them about where they came from
or why they chose my apartment.
i did sometimes ask them
where they were going. i lied once
& said, "i am a ghost too." they all laughed.
they told me there is a word for
a human who is already a ghost.
they call them "lanterns." i am not sure
if it is because we wait outside the doors
of ourselves or if there is unknowable lore
from the ghost realm. the only problem
with leaving a door unlocked is that
they come to expect your hospitality.
one night they knocked from dusk
until dawn. i said, "please, i am just trying
to sew my fingers back on." it was true.
i was coming apart. you are the company
you keep which is to say i understand
why we lock the front door.
you have to forgive me though because
sometimes, when i miss them,
i will go & sit on the front steps
of our house. they always come. 
i tell them they can pick from
the shards of broken flower pots
but sometimes i bring them leftover thread 
& orphaned beads. they ask,
"when will the museum reopen?"
i do not answer because i do not know
how to say, "this is not a museum anymore,
this is my life." 

ode to the laundry mat off grant avenue 

i walked there alone in the deadly summer.
sat in a plastic chair while my hands tumbled 
in their little machine. i did not want
to go home. the apartment vibrated 
like a death box. my room without a window.
the laundry mat owners spoke portuguese 
to one another & i picked up bits
& pieces of conversation with my spanish. 
"he was never in love" & 
"we should not have opened the door"
& "i hate the light." around four the sun
would always shine loud & furious. 
through the big gaping window. 
the light blurred all of us. pastel citizens
of a glowing waiting place. when my clothes 
were done sometimes i would stare at them
as they rest in their nest. the soap opera 
on the tiny television would start a new episode.
once, i put another quarter in. i dried
all my legs again even though they were done.
the shop owner asked, "do you want a refund?
did the machine not work?"
this was the closest i came to telling anyone 
the truth back then. "no. it is working fine."
confused, she looked into the whirl with me.
all my limbs in there. the relief of not having
to be alive for anyone just a little longer.
in another machine a blanket ran
like a horse. in another machine a child 
slept soundly. when the cycle was over 
i wanted to beg the machine for more.
you crave the liminal most when something
has to give. standing in the stairwell
with my body in a laundry bag i still craved
the hum of that place. it's promise that 
for however long your skin needed, there was
no where else to go. 

documentary of the icicles

i took my lungs & filled them with birds.
the snow would not stop 
& i thought maybe just maybe
i could become a shoulder of the mountain.
then by spring
when we ambled around dazed & bleary
they would find me,
a pile of ladles. soup spat
from the sink. my neighbor's house
lost heat & the icicles grew longer
& longer each day. i gazed at them
from the window. decided they were
my little gods. i waited for them to fall
as all gods do. the world has these moments
when it feels like it can fit
in your pocket. a photobooth picture
of whatever my life used to be before
my bones started migrating elsewhere.
they searched for warmth. i can 
not blame them. when people say,
"during covid" i hear 
"i do not believe in survival."
a kind of shifting like,
"i did not live in the same suitcase
that you did."
i know they do not mean anything by it
but i remember how the icicles shattered.
broken limbs. the ambulance
painting red on the white snow. 
i still have birds in my lungs. lungs
in all the birds. if i ever say,
"during covid" i mean during my life.
or, at least, during the life i can remember.
the before & the after are altered 
in their becoming. when the snow did stop
i could not breathe at all. 
i lay in a bath of epsom salt for weeks.
turned into a flute. let anyone 
who wanted to sing, come & use me. 
i always dreamed of carving an instrument
from one of those icicles. playing
until it melted in my hands. 

high street

i learned how to collect favorite houses
from my mom. there was one we would pass
each time we drove to visit my great aunts.
she would point it out & say,
"i would love to live there."
i think it's an idealistic impulse.
the thought that "this structure could save us."
for her it was an old brick home perched above 
the forest creek. in jim thorpe, 
high street is full of my favorite houses.
i collect them like snow globes.
shake them & watch the feathers rain down.
most of them are air bnbs so most of them
are selling miniature fantasies 
of this mountain. i want to knock 
on the doors. i want to ask, "have you see
my legs?" or "have you seen my singing?"
come inside & i know that's exactly 
where they'll be. piled in the fireplace.
setting on the kitchen table like ripe bananas.
i used to flirt with the idea of paying
for an air bnb just for one night
even though my apartment was
just up the street. i never did. i think i knew
it would destroy me to find out
a new home would not fix me. instead,
i keep up the yearning. i walk high street
every time i visit town. look down 
at broadway & all the little people
with their doorbell lives. i have a vision
of my mother driving to the forest house
all by herself. knocking on the door
& begging to walk through just once.
the wooden floor boards sighing beneath
her every step. i hope if she did
that it was everything she thought it would be. 

house of spiders

you told me to kill her
& for a few moments we stared
at the palm-sized spider 
in the bottom of the bath.
it is a burnt sugar september.
i think maybe this is the month of spiders.
with a shampoo bottle
i did what you asked. in her death
she became a folding chair. i use
a potato peeler on the sun.
save some shavings for the coming dark.
i do not mind getting older. what i mind
is the world getting older too. 
the spiders do not go away. 
she is only the beginning. 
a spider on my foot in the morning
& a spider walking the shower curtain 
the next afternoon. a spider carrying
a story about gold & another spider
with the truth about how we will 
become ghosts. i find the infants too.
spiders the size of blinks. 
i do not want to kill anymore.
whenever i can, i let them go.
they knit halos in the corners of every room. 
sometimes i get nostalgia videos
on my tiktok. i cannot look at them
for too long or else i'll start panicking.
running as if time is a stop motion
little machine that i can trick into
letting me return. the spiders 
are not like us. they talk all the time.
they talk past & present & 
elsewhere. in their webs, time becomes
a string of christmas lights. 
i tell the spiders i am sorry for killing
one of their own. they do not accept
the apology. they say,
"she is not dead." a thousand of her
live in the walls. her face,
an anagram. back & forward.
they also tell me, "summer is not over."
"but it is almost," i say, desperate
for them to understand why i feel
like i'm dying. "summer is always over,"
they tell me as if it were a comfort. 
i dig a hole beneath the cedar
to bury the first spider i killed. 
i do not have her body so instead
i bury my left thumb. maybe it is
a comfort. maybe it is. 

mocktails 

i'm fully aware there is
a substantial hole in the sun.
or, at least, i am as aware as you can be
about the unraveling. 
we'll all be little donut children
if we're not careful. nothing in the middle.
walking through each other in search
of a mouthful of fat & sigh. 
 i put sunscreen on
in little circles to keep from
becoming tinder. it is an old
wise people trick. once i saw
a man selling candles turn into a thumb.
flames. spontaneous combustion.
we go to the pickled world to pretend
everything is fine. watch the battle.
a woman leans over to ask 
"who is fighting this one?" i squint
to try to see. there is a man selling cocktails 
without any eels in them.
i take one. it's enough to make me swim
to the bermuda triangle to try to escape.
someone is always waving goodbye. someone else
is always showing up & pretending
like salvation is a fried egg.
fast & easy. grease dotting the stove.
the battle is over & the between is empty.
we met once at the arch in washington square park.
you were whole & so was i. terrifying.
the x-acto knife. the blood. i visited the ocean 
with a scream in a pocket. we kissed
& pretended this was all over.
sucking all the flowers dry. hungry bees.
pollen on my eyelashes. i don't make it home. 

disposable camera

i let the little ice boxes eat my face.
keep the door shut so the cat doesn't get out.
(there is no cat, i am just dead). 
blink twice if you are alive. don't blink
if you're okay with turning
into a bird feeder. 
i feel like a bologna waiting to be made
into medallions. we take nothing
but our hands when we go out
into the teeth zoo. i set up my army men
all down your legs. i tell you
"do not move until the mission is complete."
there are people who only live
on rolls of films.
we hold their amber terrariums up to
the attic lights. i tell you to twirl the film
like dancing ribbons so we can see ourselves
in a stop motion show.
the cameras are just mice. the cameras
are just bugs. i tell you "i wish i would
have saved your face" i do not mean
a picture. i mean a death mask.
something three dimensional so that
if the house is on fire i can say
"wait i need their face" before
running back into the flames. 
if we are able to sell just enough of our tongues
i think we should make a movie
about our grandfather. one in which
he is a great bird of prey & for the whole show
we just follow him & try to get a clear picture
of him. the ghosts are always moving.
i would also want to evade understanding.
once i heard another trans person say
"i just want to be understood." for me
the freedom is the inverse. i want to be
free to be confusing & contradicting.
i want to take hundreds of pictures,
hold them up to the light,
& see nothing but guts & leaves.