on noticing all the walls in my apartment are white

have you ever given your bones
to a stranger? i met my landlord once.
him & his wife stood in the living room
while families scurried around his house.
we were all hungry. one girl said,
"you could sleep here," to her daughter.
a man touched the wall & left a soft smudge
with his dirt veiled hands. was he working
in a garden? taking apart the guts of a truck?
when we moved in the smudge was still there.
finding rice in the kitchen drawers
from the last owner. ant traps. a hole
where a landline would go. the houses
on delaware street talk to one another.
shoulder to shoulder. they discuss
match boxes & the wind-blown garbage 
that collects in the rocks by trout creek. 
i tell this house that is my house
& also not & never my house that 
if i were allowed to, i would paint
the walls a light purple. i would get down
on my knees. i do not wash away
the hand print of the man. sometimes
he lives here too. have you ever given
your bones to a stranger? all the sentences
where i tell friends, "my house" & 
"my home." why is this not my house,
my home? not in the sense of blood 
& property but in the sense that 
no one should own the rivers. in the sense that
in the dead of night i should be able
to wake up & paint the walls lavender.
laugh with the ghosts. find the man 
standing there, his face a flower. 
invite him inside & talk about all the walls
that have surrounded us. all the places
we have called home that have not been. 

window affliction 

whenever i try to take a video
of myself there is a new person watching.
i crawled inside this house because it only had
one window. then in the morning
there was two. by nighttime, three.
windows procreating like rabbits.
windows winking at strangers & saying,
"come & look at this dragon." at first
they were all the same shape. then,
windows came in circles. portals. octagons 
& triangles. all the alphabet of light.
sun & then sardine-belly moon.
strangers peer inside. frantic. i run
from one side of the house to the other.
i cover the windows with everything i have.
towels & papers & old t-shirts. just as
one is covered another arrives, blinking 
itself open. when did you realize you were
living inside a beast's skull? i never know
just how much i want to be witnessed.
i have to admit there are moments
when i see someone watching me
through one of the windows & i feel
like a god or at least an idol. i feel
made of precious. like they might build
an altar to my bones. what are they taking?
what am i handing over. a vision is just
a breathing photograph. save that thought
of me, putting on my tulip clothes.
turning into a bulb mother. enough 
with the light. enough with the mailmen.
if you want to watch, watch. know though
that this is contagious. if you have one window.
you might wake up with two. you might
discover there are deer living in your yard.
they have a television & they like to watch
America's Next Top Model. i warned you.
there are not enough curtains for this life.
you can doorbell me. i'll always let you
be part of the movie. 

little free library

i watch my neighbor fill 
the little free library with bibles.
he pulls each previous book resident 
from its shelter. puts them
into a coffin he is carrying on his back.
in a country of squirrels 
i do not mean to be a prophet. i always
seem to witness these fissure moments.
i think about what it would look like
to stop him. the box 
a little word stomach.
just a week ago it snowed 
as much as i've seen in my whole life.
i imagine my neighbor 
cultivating his flock of bibles.
caressing their heads like children.
splaying them open & begging them
to speak. he does not have children
or else they are gone. his wife & him
sometimes sit on the porch
& stare down like vultures. i want know
what he thinks this book says.
does he believe it will save us? does he
believer it gave us the cities-worth of snow?
does he picture strangers 
coming to feast on the pages? becoming
disciples. i am a follower 
of only the birds. the ones who,
somehow, find places to hide
when it is deadly winter. i go out
to the box when he is done. 
imagine the little free library
full of birds, crows & chickadees &
one ripe cardinal. i take one bible.
open it & speak into the pages. 
i say, "fly away" & the words turn into ants.
march into the surrounding woods.
i do not know where he took
the other books. but i am sure
he buried them. i hope he said final words.
i hope they screamed at him
or else each turned into bibles
in the dirt. whose tongue to you sleep on?
i wake up sometimes inside 
the little free library. the size of a thumb. 
turn a page. when i open the bible 
they are always blank. i write poems there
about the birds. about the snow. 

bees

i can't always tell bees apart from grandmothers.
my grandmother held out an egg
& tried to cleanse the bees from me.
instead, the egg hatched into a raven.
after, we never spoke of that night on the floor
of her apartment. i drank milk from the cat's bowl.
stood outside by the broken fountain 
& chased every bee i could find. i found my self
only able to speak their language. 
i have woken up in hives. i have woken up
& forgotten that i do not have a ceiling.
i have woken up without any feathers.
a mouthful of bees. my grandmother 
was allergic. she would run from bees.
she whispered in my ear, "i know you are
a bee waiting to get me." i shook my head.
but i also knew the thrum in my stomach.
the hives that always grew in me.
paper city. paper wings. i wanted to have
clean bones for her. she said, 
"i have survived more bees than you."
i wept. i didn't understand why i had
to be a child. why couldn't i just
be a colony in a tree so deep in the woods
that every gust of wind was a grandmother.
in the morning the moon was still watching.
sipping milk from the day's bowl.
i asked her "what can i do to never 
bring bees here again?" i wanted her love.
i wanted her blood. a promise that we were
from the same gushing river. she shook her head.
she said she did not know what i was 
talking about. the raven perched 
on her head. no one else could see it.
my mother asked how i liked my day
with my grandmother & i told her
as little as possible. embarrassed by 
my insects. my honey. the sweetness
spilling from every wound. the bees spoke then
in a voice only i could hear.
"what if you are not one of them?" 

fall (apart)

we spent all night eating buttons
& telling each other "you look fine."
have you ever been in a state
of total panic but
like a rabbit
you stand still & can only listen to
your pocket watch heart?
i have & there was a microwave sound
going as if i was reheating 
my organs one at a time.
have you been a slice of deli meat?
petals of cow. petals of pig.
we are all the meat flower. unless of course
you are vegan & then you are
searching always for the old taste
of milk & butter. i believe all animals
have a seam we can find 
& pull & watch them come apart.
i have done this to others.
limbs in a piles. girls in a locker room
& the neighbor man without an eye,
they did this back to me. they kept the thread
to floss their teeth.
do not let anyone fool you.
you do not need to come apart
in order to fit the leaves 
inside you. you do not need 
to kill the bird for more buttons.
they are everywhere or so i am told.
i think some people take off their arms
for fun. for us though
we take them off to use as oars.
the river is full of whales.
if unfurled they would be 
a field of sofas. come, let's numb
the nerves. let's watch some reality tv.
some commercial salad. 
buy a ripe plantain. fry 
& eat it with our fingers 
fresh from the pan. 

bruise feast

the first time i fell as a plum
you told me you would plant
the pit in the deepest part
of your closet. i searched for it
every time you turned me into a chickadee.
a handful of hair. little horse self
pulling a carriage of your shoes.
the bruises always tasted like caramel.
sweet in the autumn ankles.
i was an expert at convincing myself
that love was a tunnel of knives.
goodbye midnight. goodbye grease.
a roasted fish. your father's swimming eyes.
today i know there is a plum tree somewhere
in your guts. it is all mine. when you try
to eat the fruit it makes you sick.
leaves you with the same bruises 
you left me only they are rancid & look
like new continents. so, you have
to watch the plum tree. pretend it is not
growing from your eye socket. lie to
every new lover, saying,
"this is just a history." my darling, if i 
remember anything about us it is that
you always finish your plate. i am here
in a castle of sugar. i am here eating
my own plums. every new pit
a rosary bead. i pray to the oldest gods
that you think of me & your stomach
turns into salamanders. you lay awake
coughing up pits. one after another.
the closet, verdant & holy. that you still
find my feathers on your clothes.
revenge is a spell no one is ever really 
too good for. do not tell me you don't dream
of seeing the blossoms bursting
from the mouth of the person who buried you.
you can say whatever you want. 
everyone can see exactly what grew. 

gold leaf diet

in the year of the gold leaf diet everyone's motto was
"be less." people the width of thread. we wove
into tapestries of hunger. jumped rope with 
& desires. i became a braid. you became a basket 
heavy with plums. you can come to adore even
the smallest of pleasures. warm water. a plate of nothing
but gold leaf. the television said, "live like a pharaoh." 
servants in between our ribs making clay 
to use for houses. have you ever realized you are
the river? mouth open, spilling crayfish into
open-armed lovers? i would roll the leaf & chew,
remembering the flavor of fat. olive oil. salt. 
metallic feather. the trees that grew the gold 
naked as travelers. then, that one night you woke me
& said, "let's be dangerous." my stomach was 
a pool of piranhas. we dug in the earth until
we found a sweet potato in the shape of an infant's face.
roasting it, the potato screamed & so we sewed 
the mouth shut. waited with waterway tongues 
as it cooled & devoured either half. 
the past fell away & we were nothing but children 
into the future of our golden city. sugar dancing 
between our eyes. you said, "we cannot tell anyone."
i said, "they will all know by looking at us."
joy is the heron. in the water & above it. 
stalking for another root. i asked you,
"should we tell them how sweet this was?"  

diary of a spoon thief

goodbye teeth. goodbye window.
i crawled out onto the roof with you
& we took turns chomping bites 
off each other's legs. you pointed to my face 
& told me all you saw was a dinner plate.
there was the last summer when 
i knew i didn't want to sleep next to you anymore.
your legs were dogs. your mouth was
a grotto of cave fish. i tried to free them
while you slept. i stuck my hands in
& captured thrashing beasts. then, alone,
in your parents' kitchen, i stole the spoons
one at a time. i buried some in the yard.
i swallowed others. then, one & only one
i kept for myself. i still have it & i use it
for witchcraft. it sticks, wax-laden, out of
my bowl of black salt. when i use it
i think of cups of espresso & the smell
of fried egg. there was a time when we feasted
on lobster. red shells. butter. ghosts.
that was the last time i ate meat. those creatures
telling me, "get out. get out." if you are 
ravenous enough to get free
you can dig with only a spoon. you can
cull the black eyes of crustaceans for a glimpse
of their other planet where no one has gender.
where love is not a game of who sleeps
closest to the cutting board. my old love,
let's not pretend you don't still search
for those spoons. i like to imagine you 
digging in the yard & finding one. then,
thinking of a night you put me 
in the closet & laughed until you turned
into a bird. beat your angry wings against 
every wall while i wept. i hope you
rebury the spoon & speak of it to no one. 

fur coat

you put on the dead staircase 
when we would go into the beast.
the city without a nose. opera masks 
fell from the sky. i told you i was 
a grandmother & you laughed & said
you were too. all our little children 
were the stoplights that made 
the neighborhood's choker. read poetry
to an empty bar. in the street everyone
was deciding to be an alley cat. everyone
was eating a handful of peanuts 
& calling it grace. you wrapped your
fur coat around your shoulders.
my beautiful animal, we should have 
gone home so much sooner. the night 
grew all the legs we said we didn't want.
centipede or street hound. the boys 
who put their teeth in their pockets 
in case a fist came to make keyboards
of their smiles. this was back when 
headphones still had cords. 
you took one bud & me the other.
put little men inside each seed 
& listened to them play their violins.
car sick in the rain slick street. take me home 
in your pocket. tell me what creature
we are stolen from & take me back there.
i crave a marsupial ending for this evening.
one where i eat my fill of bread 
& get to finally turn into a flashlight.
i forget if we kissed. if we did 
i hope it tasted like licorice. i hope the fur
purred & laughed. you took off your shoes
as if they were traitors. i searched 
my pockets for all the pieces of my face. 
one eye, still at the train station. 
i still have not gone back to get it.
a man bites into it like an apple. i see everything. 

fruit snacks

my grandfather kept a box 
above the fridge. i remember the house
smelled like soup & pickles & spice.
his hands shook slightly or else
i am conjuring a mismemory.
we ate the fruit of unfruit trees.
cicadas spit their seances into the august air.
i do not know if this is a real night
or one we both create in a re-making
of the past. history is a loom. 
he showed me how to plant
one of the false seeds on my tongue
& still grow a tree. i wish i had known
to ask him about sweetness.
about what fruit grew in the belly
of his home. how home can become
a limb we search for. shoveled oceans
worth of syrup. the gravel driveway.
wings he filled every single closet with.
there is a family story that on the day
the tornados ripped through lyons,
that he believed death was coming
for him. instead, he died 
in his sleep. i picture him,
mouth open, a little fruit tree 
growing there. birds come & roost.
i know the seeds live inside me. 
do they remember the nectar 
they are supposed to emulate 
or are they new bodies entirely?
memories of swallowed orchards.
my handful of false grapes. what language 
should i speak when i talk to him?
the tongue of almost oranges
or that of a root laying like a leg
in the backyard?