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? 

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.