bags of ice

my father bought home bags of ice
like newborns. cradled in the front seat
of his blue jeep. we would go
to greet the ice. watch as he broke 
the ice in by throwing it on to the pavement 
before pouring it into the blue chipped cooler.
summer was always for ritual.
watching the new sibling melt. seeing 
his body fill with brown bottles.
i used to wish i was a bag of ice. some kind
of release. at least at the end of the night
the ice was water & could be set free.
instead, i was a little moth flitting from
porch light to porch light. sitting
with my father & uncle as they smoked 
cigars & drank themselves into dizzy moons.
there would come a point when they would
turn into bullies. laugh at me & the dust
on my wings. banging my head 
against the glow. here i am, here i am
i would say. all the while, my new sibling
chilling their beverages. him, the favorite.
him, the perfect son. useful & brief.
inside the house i'd retire to watching
from the window. shower the smoke
from my skin. reach beneath my pillow
for a handful of my secret bubblegum.
deep in the night when i heard the house go silent.
only then would i go & witness 
the final dregs of the ice. i would go 
as a pilgrimage. cool night air.
i'd reach my hand in to the cooler
not minding the dirt of the bottles
& my father's hands. i would eat 
the half-melted ice. let it dissolve in my mouth.
a feast for an oldest child. the moths 
bought bells to ring. i put my finger
to my lips & begged them to hush. 
no one ever caught me. 

green boyfriend

don't get guilty with me
you know no one else is 
waiting on the banana house.
we live inside a mood. inside a dragon egg.
i turn on the television & worship
every form of sadness that creeps my way.
holy are the stale-food eaters. holy are
the boyfriends without any boyfriends.
we go into the alley to talk to the rats.
i'm told we should have a strategy
but we end up talking in circles 
about capitalism & utopian futures.
this is balm we need. the rats turn into 
our dad's shoes. our shoes turn into 
our dad's shoes. i do not want to 
go to sleep without feeding the clouds.
their stomachs growl from hunger. 
hear me out, if enough of us all stand up
& decide we don't believe in money
then we'll be free. then we'll chew nothing
but turkish delight. then we'll have 
a ferris wheel full of passengers 
who just want to point out to their lover,
"do you see that roof? that is where
i used to be a boyfriend." pickles at the back
of the fridge are singing about revolution.
i go & tighten the lid. no one is out 
in the snow laden street. there are 
just deer searching for their dad's shoes.
there are just birds pretending 
they are women & women pretending
they are birds. then, there's me.
my gender is boyfriend & my boyfriend 
is a coat closet that smells like must 
& fever. let's not pretend we have 
more time than we really do. 
the bomb has feathers & friends.
it is going to turn us all into ghosts.
the rats will then rule the once-green world. 
they will tell stories about boyfriends.
"did you know we used to 
love each other in a way that made 
weeds grow wild & untamable?" 

kfc midnight

you fed me mashed potatoes 
with a spork in the back seat
of your mouth.
chicken skin peeling off 
my face. we were in gettysburg 
looking for dead men. in so many ways
the first part of my life 
was just a quest for dead men.
their bones & their ghosts.
we took pictures of battlefields
scouring for shadows & orbs.
the whole time i was thinking
about marriage & how i was
so ready to be a spoonful.
i was sixteen & mosquitoes 
always found me first in a crowd.
crowns & bracelets of bites.
other lovers were there too.
speaking to the dark as if it were
a father. i never wanted
to leave the parking lot. 
drive through window. your 
bare feet on the dashboard.
"did you see that?" you asked.
you were looking off 
at the field across from the neon 
parking lot. "yes," i promised
even though i didn't see anything.
i didn't eat more that night.
i left you to finish my plastic bowl
even though i was still hungry.

on the night we grow hooves

trampled ice cream grove. you call 
a doctor & the doctor turns out
to just be a man with a moon for a face.
you tell me, "why are you always 
the pirate." i look down at my silk dress
& my willow-tree hands. i do not mean
to talk to god. i do not mean to  run.
a hoof is a crossroads. here come
the four horsewomen. here come
cherubs without any eyes. i always thought
i could empty myself to become
the right kind of animal. you fill
my satchel with teeth. i ask, "what are we
going to do with these?" you shush me.
we have hooves now. we don't need
to ask questions. i remember the jars
of pickled pigs feet at the farmer's market.
how they talked to me even as a child.
"hold me. hold me." i don't want you
to see my hooves. i want you to look at me
& only witness feathers & the sound
of lilies turning into mice. 
you used to bring me flowers. you used to
eat my hair like spaghetti. i always told you
we would arrive to night like this.
searching for our hands in the dark
& finding none. hoof to road.
you chasing me or me chasing you.
i ask, "where did you go?"
you do not answer. instead, you find 
a man to stampede. i join in & call it a game. 
i ask you, when we are done,
"in the morning will you remember me?"
you respond with another question,
"in the morning will we still have hooves?" 

domesticated 

i always wanted to be the whirlpool's wife.
i bought an apron. i bought a thimble.
i baked a cake in the shape 
of my head & sat to watch you eat.
Red velvet. icing-lipped. 
i was a cow & i dreamed of having hands
i could use to tie knots. i was a flock
of geese & i imagined flying so far south
that the world turned inside out 
& all i could see for miles were trees 
growing down from the sky like fangs.
there was the one summer we lived in the rv.
your barefoot mirage. your ring 
after ring & the promises that followed. 
the lock on the door. smell of
ocean & must. i thought every day
of going feral. of shaving my head 
& running away from you. hitchhiking into
the mouth of another boy. there seemed
to be so many back then. every window
had a pair of eyes floating & staring.
i was skilled at obedience when i needed to be. 
stay. sit. come.
your finger on my chin. shaved legs
as smooth as dead fish. the worst parts were
when i craved it. when i yearned for
your command. tell me who i am. 
tell me exactly who i am. domestication
is the process of emptying. not coming home
but becoming a home for another's knees.
do you remember when you said,
"i want you to smile?" i did. crooked toothed.
my breasts like trampled peaches.

bingo hall

i open my mouth for a number.
let's be dragon casserole. let's be 
tuesday night highway. our fingers made
of peanut brittle. we drive by a church
made of monkey bread. take a piece.
take a picture. i want to live
one space away from rapture. call the magic.
call the slinky down the stairs.
my brother used to say, "love the sinner,
hate the ___." there is a god but he is
very far away & does not know how to reach us.
sometimes he picks up his telephone
& all he hears is fire. there are nights 
i am a survivor & nights i am just a victim.
i do not always want to be the one
in the kitchen trying to pluck feathers 
off a basilisk, telling him,
"this is for your own good." once we drove
to new york to watch the thanksgiving balloons.
i ate peas from a can in the car. 
you traded your eyes with another man's.
chicken nuggets on the sidewalk.
i feast like a feral moon. lilies grow
beneath the wallpaper. they call "b4"
& i hear "before." before what?
before i had legs. before everyone knew
exactly how to slice an onion. 
before i had to walk into rooms & announce
that i am not trying to be a prophet
i am just followed by angels. they spit
in people's eyes sometimes just like
alpacas though their most closely related
human cousin would be the snow leopard.
i could be old tomorrow. i could be
holding a basket of knitting. 
the bingo is open to anyone. it is 
a little prison experiment just like 
most rooms are. here are the four corners.
here are the borders & here is your 
clear token from which you are
supposed to predict the future. 
all the doors in the world open at once.
cold air in. humid air in. birds in.
bugs in. boys in. calling "bingo!"
to a room of mourners. everyone is wearing black.
there is cash falling from the ceiling.
we all scramble to try
& pluck it from the ground. our genders
out the windows, banished by hunger.
i tell you, "i won" 
but really i mean, "i got lucky." 

point blank

i want to know if when you say,
"government" you mean "god."
i want to know if when you look
at the burning television you are 
thinking about tombs or if 
you are throwing a football back
& forth until it turns into a baby. 
i just crave a truth day where
we all say what we mean. i mean
i don't know what to do anymore.
i mean i'm scared for the crows.
i mean i am unconvinced that i am 
a child. few facts comes to mind
when asked, "what do you know?"
people are dying. the sun eats spaghetti.
my brother & i can talk on the phone
for days at a time. a revolution is a place
where we all bury our hope
like peach pits in order to save it.
will we walk decades later in a grove 
of ripe fruit? i talk to my lover about
where & how we can share food 
with our friends. cans of cranberry sauce
& boxes of granola bars. is this how
we answer? i am not sure.
the spirits of uncertainty roost 
on the roof of our little house. 
they say, "what do you want
from this life?" i do not answer 
because i do not know. but i am sure
it is not enough to just wish peace
for the burning mailboxes & 
the drowning headlights. will you tell me then,
what do you mean when you say
"i'm praying for..." do not tell me
you love everyone. love is not a state.
it is where you put your body. it is 
the danger you are willing to dance with. 
i want to love like the crows.
like the animals who unwittingly
walk in front of cars. so, then, tell me
do you want to eat peaches with me? 

prized pig

oh rubber moon,
there's a ham for us yet. they tell me
i am rotten slop worship. i am the pink
limousine arriving at the tree
of fingers. god was once 
a fallen angle too. he ate 
corn on the cob until he was as round
as a roller skate. all the children
on the back of the sow as she enters
the new atmosphere. i wanted salvation.
i wanted a body worth pinning 
a ribbon to. blue ribbon boy. broken
blood vessels that used to carry groceries.
there is fat layered on my bones like wings.
hooves to be pickled. the foot of my father
in my mouth. i tried to climb
the tree to puncture a hole in god's heart.
instead, all i saw were rats up there.
big ugly rats with mouths full
of grease. god has let the afterlife go.
all he does is tell the pigs to go
& eat whatever they can. i take my ears &
plant them in the earth's core. listen
to history muttering to itself. it says,
"pork chop pork chop." cheese sliced
as thin as skin. i salt my thighs.
i ride the milkshake dragon. fill a vial
with teeth & sell if for a chance
to hear the pigs speaking. hoagie sacrifice.
it is a megatron. it is a house
of mirrors. the pigs eat one another
until there is just one big huge pig
who doesn't know where she is.
i lead her into the ocean to become
a cruise ship or else maybe at least
devoured. all the stories filling the air.
we are living popped balloon lives.
when the prized pig bites me,
all you'll hear is the sound of 
a crooked tooth becoming a mandolin. 

jonah's whale

they say my belly is a scripture.
i scoured the ocean
in search of a light. all the crustacean centuries.
my god, always deeper than i can swim.
sometime, i think i notice him
peering out with nautical eyes 
from the depths of the deepest trenches.
when i arrive it is never him. never a god. it is a ghost.
a phantom ship. a discarded soul.
some whale legends say
that the afterlife exists right here.
in the dark & the deep. 
right past where we can swim. 
as a small creature my mother would sing
a song about monsters. she would hum,
"away from the mouth, 
away from the mouth." i wonder what he
thought when he saw my mouth.
my little traveler. a water maw 
i knew i had to swallow him. haven't you ever 
seen yourself become prophecy?
become a metaphor? the truth is
that i loved him. wanted to keep him
for as long as i could. i was finally
not alone. i had someone else
to talk about death with. 
i would tell him in my tongue,
"i am afraid of changing
into a ghost without noticing."
he sat. prayed. wept. & i sometimes 
would weep too. 

wedding ring

you shoot a hole through the wall
& ask me to put my finger inside.
we are children & you are sitting
on the front step of your house
counting clementines in my eyes.
"one for me one for me one for me,"
you say. 
you promise me, "we'll move" by which
you mean, "i'll plunder you."
all the dresses i rolled to try
& find that promise. you on 
one knee in the middle of a desert.
you on one knee in the attic.
on the bed. sleeping until my heart
melts like butter. mayonnaise night.
i thought i could give away 
my eye lashes for you. i thought the hole
was a ring. a place to escape.
to be a child is to still believe
you can run away. become a woman.
some trans people talk about 
always being their gender but for me
all gender has always been something
i have to become. i became 
his angel food cake. his wife with 
a capital "w." the sound 
of a tea kettle. a spoonful of cream.
he drove barefoot. we parked 
at the creek. at mulberries. he told me
to lay still. turned me into a ring. 
he said, "you love this." i swallowed.
tried to smile. tried to find meaning 
in my soft little orbits.
still, today, i want to find him.
i want to shoot a hole in his favorite tree.
tell him, put your finger here.
stand in this spot until the crows come
& tell you that you are a woman.