self-portrait as a self-portrait 

i want you to lie with me
& tell me i am the creature of mice & weeds,
not a boy without an urn.
i have used tupperware
to carry my heart into a new bed.
every year since i turned seventeen,
i have moved at least once a year. 
in the long run, this is just one more.
a box for my hands that i kick
along the floor. a box for my tongue
filled with packing tape.
you stand inside the one
perfect pupil i have left. the other one
burst like a balloon.
i was playing with pins. if i have a home
it is not something i can dig for anymore.
instead, i take pictures of myself
in the yard. look up pocket knives online
so that i can really dig at the earth.
in a dream i am late for a flight.
sitting in a hotel room bed
i think, "i could live here." 
all my lives like unnested nesting dolls.
just tell me where the freezer is
& tell me what i mean to you.
give me a polaroid & a pill.
my bones sing to eachother.
i order an uber & then charge my mind.
i do not want to try 
to go back tonight. standing outside
the hospital with my lungs in a briefcase.
i called & called & no one came.
sometimes the false memories
are the ones that are truest. or else
i am just a liar & this is not my body at all
& soon i will move again. 

spore print

i ask you why we know
so little about mushrooms 
& you say, "i think people
are scared of them."
it's early evening
& i follow you through
the ferns & the forest brush.
i feel a kinship with mushrooms
because it is a queer feeling
to be delightfully misunderstood. 
rotted logs. swarms of beetles.
from here grows purple mushrooms 
& white mushrooms & mushrooms
that look like alien hearts.
we looked for mushrooms the first time
we went into the woods together.
you bend down. touch the neck
of a mushroom. pluck them
from the earth. turn caps over
in your hands. a finger
across gills. for a long time
this was as close as i could get
to kissing you. watching how
you undo the soil & the earth. 
now, i take your hand.
kiss your shoulder. we smell
like bug spray & dead leaves 
& i love it & i always want more.
i want to say, "can we live
off only mushrooms?"
in the cabin
you show me how 
one mushroom repairs 
its own gills with a latex.
you hold your pocket knife 
& taste the bitter secretion,
spitting it out in the sink.
you tell me none of them
are edible.
a basket of mushrooms.
i picture their spores 
like tiny altar bells. 
you lay each cap down 
on a piece of paper. cover them
with another. a blanket
for the mushroom skulls.
when i lay next to you i feel like this.
like a mushroom cap 
laying down all 
the language i have. the mushrooms
& face down saying,
"i love you i love you
i love you" along with me.

life inside a telescope

i'm interested in selling
parts of my body when i'm dead.
i'd like to see my ear
in someone's windowsill.
they might look at it & say,
"i should get rid of that"
but instead they hang on.
this is how i live my life.
every time i move i become aware
of just how many books i have
that i have never opened again
since reading. in my last house
i only had one pan. 
upstairs a man listened 
to the radio & the radio said,
"i don't want to be your daughter
anymore." i have been looking
too closely at everyone.
a lens is a horror factory. 
do you know half the people
i talk to are only reciting lines
from television shows?
do you know we all have pimples?
i thought everyone else
walked around with dinner-plate-smooth
cheeks. no! even the beautiful people
have pimples they're hiding.
i am not sure if i want to sell my eyes.
they feel the most intimate.
maybe i will have them 
put into raviolis. i've been
obsessed with butternut squash recently.
if we really needed to
i think we could probably 
eat moths for protein.
a huge one flies into the house
& i chase it as if it is 
a piece of my face. i think
my nose would go for the most money though.
someone might mount it
like a deer head.
do people hunt where you live?
they do here. a deer is 
a site of reconciliation.
when i see them. i tell them to run.

glazed donut ice cream

i took jericho turnpike 
to the edge of my mania.
the parking lot was big enough
to have a wedding in.
i loved that shoprite. dull yellow glow.
my phone like a pocket knife.
carts that whined 
as i made my way down
the flickering neon aisles.
everyone there was hungry.
shopping with fists full
of glazed donuts & ice berg lettuce. 
i always thought of parking
at the station in hempstead
when i was done
& just taking a ride until i escaped
my own veins. a city is a place you go
to bury your face. to become 
a vessel. i walked around as an urn
collecting the ash of any boy
who wanted to tap his cigarette 
against my lips. once i parked
outside the apartment.
terrified of being a skeleton
i ate a pint of glazed donut ice cream
with my hands. knuckle deep.
turned on the radio
quiet so only i could hear
& not any of the people
walking down main street.
i licked my fingers clean. spoonless
& shaking. i wanted us to be
elephants in a third floor apartment.
i wanted too much or maybe
everyone wants too much.
when i was done i found
a trash can on the sidewalk
to throw out the container. 
it was late. almost 11. still,
i stalled before climbing the stairs
with my hands full of plastic bags.
some kind of deserted bird
spilling on the living room floor
still hungry. 

mirror tree

have you ever walked so far
you lost your face?
i stand at a truck station bathroom
& try to make eyes with a sharpie marker.
i cannot draw as well as i wish i could.
we say a hail mary
as a siren cries out
in the deep forest. there is always
an emergency. on the radio
aliens are landing & offering us 
cream corn. a turkey is
plucking himself 
in the middle of time square. 
bare flesh. bear flesh.
a bomb goes off but it is also
a false alarm. no one is concerned enough
about the jellyfish. they bloom 
like bruises across my face.
i hit myself until there's a garden.
someone can love you
& also not know how to love you.
i think of scrubbing my eyes out
in my parent's bathroom
& wanting to be something 
they could put in their pockets.
i have never been something
that could fit into a wallet.
i used to be easier to love 
or else i was like a birthday cake.
buttercream roses. terribly cliche 
but always yearned for. a girl
is usually a birthday cake if she's not
a hachet. i don't want to be 
loved like this. i want it to be 
urgent & full of ripe pears.
i want the mirror to spit mangos at me.
i burry a hand mirror
beneath their tree. the tree says,
"be careful what you run away from."
the very next day 
the tree started to grow mirrors.
i stood in the driveway. saw
so many versions of my face.
i had to run away. walking until
my legs were coat hangers.
weeping until my eyes were
thankfully gone. i dream of returning 
to the mirror tree. cutting the fruit
& covering each one. 

mildew

i mowed the lawn until it cried out.
we were selling our souls for a discount.
buy one & get one half off. 
a half a soul is a tuesday. i am
setting the fire alarms on fire.
who knows if we will survive 
if there is a glitch. i don't need to know
there is mildew in the basement.
sometimes a shut door is a mercy.
i spent years inside every door
that would have me. the figure
in the hallway. a ghost without 
a ghost. when we are visited 
it is best to welcome whatever comes
or so i tell myself. the portal is
just as mundane as a dishwasher.
there is hell right on the other side.
i don't fear places like that. 
i am a witch before i am a gender.
scraping fungus from the wall
to pray for more teeth. i want a sharp row
like a sea monster. i can bleed the ocean dry.
i can crack the planets like eggs 
& bathe in their shimmering yolks.
i do not need a clean house. i need
a knife & a yard full of goats.
i need a man who is just passing through.
tell him the basement has
his name written on the walls.
turning on a radio & hearing
my own voice sparkling. she is long dead.
i keep her salamander tongue
in my purse. sometimes it comes alive
& demands we collect quarters
along the side of the road. 

a man 

sometimes a man
is standing in the lawn
& you don't know who he is.
the phone rings &
it's an angel on the line.
he speaks in dropped dishes.
sometimes you forget 
you are a man then you remember
you don't have to be a man 
even if that's how 
the world sees you. then you remember
you once tried to be a mailbox.
opened your mouth
& let the junk mail come.
dead birds. dead beetles.
the smell of finger grit 
& folded napkins. sometimes 
the man is kind & has pockets full
of butterscotch. sometimes
you equate kindness with sugar.
sometimes sugar is a way in.
there are tunnels that throb
beneath any given furnace.
sometimes they are
full of men. sometimes
the man in the lawn looks
like your father. sometimes he has
a jesus pamphlet & sometimes 
he eats his lunch just standing there.
the curtains turn to wings.
the living room fills with hair.
nothing to see. nothing to regret.
sometimes you think
"if i just open the door
& tell him to go away."
of course you know
he's not going to go away. 
that's just not the way men
or lawns work. they are 
thresholds & pocketknives.
one akin to the other.

echo city

come here says the forest
of suitcases. once i loved you
so much i turned into
your reflection. we talked
like stone sisters do:
of the earth's hidden rage. 
you carried me in a lunch box.
the ice pack kept me alive.
leaves falling & turning
into slippers. have you ever tried
to barter with the moon? have you ever
asked a tree say your name?
my voice has divuts where 
syrup can congregate.
my teeth fall out as piano keys.
there is a song you cannot name
that plays & plays until
it is a scream. i once shouted
so loud that my face
became a basement. everyone
took shelter there. the storm
was not as bad as they said
it was going to be. knees
tucked into chests. shivering.
i give you back your paintings
& wish i would have hexed them
before returning them.
how do you stop coming back?
i return to every knife
at my knees. the knife says,
you look amazing tonight.
i kiss the blade. 

reforestation 

i built a rainforest in my shower.
sat in the corner of the tub
with the curtain drawn.
you must always be
on the lookout for intruders.
mine did not carry a knife.
he carried his face on a dinner plate.
white underwear & bare feet.
there are secrets we keep
to save others & there are secrets
we keep to save ourselves.
this one is both. i picked ripe fruit.
i ate until nectar dripped from my mouth.
no one needed to know. a fruit bat.
a colorful bird. the leaves that grew
& grew like eyelids. i had visions
of the house bursting
with ferns. a wild abundant lightning storm
shaking the teeth of the house.
his bedroom filling with beetles.
i once took a knife & wrote 
in my flesh, "i know what
you did." i did not actually do that.
but i wanted to. but i saw the flesh
as a closet to keep my dresses in.
letting the bathtub fill with thunder.
my stomach hummed full of night creatures.
i stayed as long as they would let me.
closed my eyes & talked to trees.
a river of mice. wrapping the towel
carefully around myself
& wondering if there existed
a perfect way to conceal my blood. 

the cloud

once i saved a picture of my hands
in the belly of the beast.
the beast laughed everytime
i cracked my knuckles.
there was a photo when 
we were not eating 
each other's hair & another
when i thought we would get married
inside a time capsule. you can
think you love someone 
for so long. then there comes
the recollecting. the night
where only centipedes flowed
from their lips. i am not praying
anymore but sometimes i talk
to the sun as if it's a god.
i say, "do you remember
the story i used to tell myself?"
the sun replies always (unlike god)
& says something like
"memory is a trick of repetition."
in each frame of the triptych
there is a new promise.
this is what i mean. my hands
on the copy machine
in my parent's house.
there are my ghost hands. there are
my finger prints living separate lives
with centaurs in their mazes.
i want to keep everything
untouchable & eternal. instead,
we make a bonfire. instead
you fill your car with salamanders
& beg me to drive. hands shaking,
i plead to stop at a rest stop
in new jersey. we consume
suspicious salads & diet soda.
there are halos in the glove box.
i am hanging on in the hope
that when i reopen this life
it will all seem glorious.