spider 

i have been talking too much 
to the spiders. i learn their webs 
& watch as their abdomens swell 
with buzzing lockets. we bounce 
from subject to subject. i never know 
what humans are supposed to talk about.
my partner says, “it’s like you fell
from the sky.” the spiders sometimes 
descend like gymnasts from the ceiling 
while i am hunched over a keyboard.
they mistake the screen for a fresh sun.
all the planets i know of are worn out.
i would be too if i were pulling rocks 
from the darkness. i don’t kill spiders 
instead i cradle them to elsewhere in our house.
i try to explain the cruelty that is 
a body. the light goes right through 
my spiders. the one i met yesterday 
could fit his whole life on
my thumb nail. the spiders rarely 
respond. when they do it’s in prophecies 
“soon we will knit” & “when the deer
get back to the moon.” 
those make more sense to me
than most of my life lately. 
sometimes i confide in them,
“i am unsure i have ever been 
where i should be.”
the needle-leg mother asks,
“could you weave?” i respond,
“yes.” she’s answers,
“then you have found a place.” 
in the morning i nearly walk into
a web with the precision of a
stained glass window. one panel missing 
no host. i too have left
a part of my sky unfinished. 

advents 

we kick open doors to find
chocolate on the other side. i know
the year is rapidly coming
to a carnival because every store
is selling advent calendars. 
all day i have been fantasizing about 
disobedience. do you think we can
make the powerful feel the fear we do?
is it worth it? or am i just supposed
to open doors until there are 
no doors left? until the year is slippery 
& done? i have become less & less sure
what i want to happen. as a child,
i craved the advent calendar. my mother,
cunning as always, bought calendars
with bible verses beneath the flaps.
she would read them aloud as 
i chewed the sweet treasure. a brief
breath of milk chocolate. each shaped
like an angel or a star or some other
symbol for glory. i don't remember
any of the verses but i remember exactly
how a piece of milk chocolate melts
on your tongue. the days when my brother
got the piece instead of me. the way cold wind
moved through the old house. then, in the 
creaky last days of the year, how the calendar
sat vacant. nowhere else for us 
to burst into. i don't buy the calendars anymore.
i do not even track the moon like
i probably should. i feel like doors are
something that happens to me 
rather than that which i open. i see a picture
of a local slumlord's house online. it is huge &
i imagine it as an advent calendar. 
what do they count down? i am looking
for hope in bites. in windows. in doors. 
in holding on to autumn. i open a door.
the bathroom light like a star or an angel. 

killer

sometimes we end up in a horror movie.
the killer is outside painted by the mango light
from the neighbor's porch. when i feel up to it,
i invite the killer inside. he is confused. 
used to chasing. designed to chase. i feed him
beans & rice & we talk about the moon.
he lays his knife down on his thigh & removes
his face. nothing but a void beneath. 
to be kind on occasion i will agreed to playing
out the scene. he will give me a running start
& i will burst from the front door. try to start
the car. he is in the back seat. on the radio
there is a story about another dictator & 
the killer thinks it ruins the mood. he believes
there is honor is his kind of horror. the big burning kind
he is opposed to. he has strong morals. fears
should be earned. chased for. not massive. 
a replacement of the sun. he never leaves before sunrise.
always over stays his welcome. wants to talk
politics. wants to get me riled up. i ask him,
"why are you a killer?" which makes his laugh.
he always responds the same, "why are you a victim?"
this is when i kick him out. when i lock the doors.
when i look at my own kitchen knives & try
to decide which one would be best for defending myself.
i saw a sticker on a trashcan that read,
"those who believe violence is never
the answer have never had to fight for their life."
i wonder who we are to each other, me & the killer
& the big movie that i never get to see. 
my attention span is not what it used to be.
i think i have lost the desire to get it back. i have accepted
that i will live my life in clips. the running.
the eggplant night. the persistence of the killer.
on the nights when i don't let him in, 
he sometimes falls asleep. asleep, he is nothing more
than a phone flashlight. a star on the ground. 
moths dance around him until he's replaced by morning.
sun full of ants. the knife stuck in the dirt.  

fake watermelon 

sell me something that makes
my mouth water. for the most part,
i prefer the fake fruit tastes to the real ones.
something uniform & expected 
in a world of roulette sundays. 
banana candy & a grape soda dark. 
i scroll in the highway video
& every other oracle is a girl who is
hoping you will buy her tongue
from her mouth. 
i put peach rings on my fingers & go to
a job interview at the dead people place.
my partner makes fun of me
for wanting to go back to wage labor
after living off of a golden goose. 
the interviewer is a woman i have met before
who is thinking, "how easy will they
be to hurt?" she asks me what kind
of ghost i would be. i am the poltergeist always. 
i took karate as a kid & i remember nothing
but the smell of sweat & those gymnastics mats. 
don't tell my dad though, he's always been
really invested in me becoming a killing
machine & not the state-sanctioned kind.
once i save a bird from the tall grass. 
his wing was hurt & he was begging
for some sour patch watermelon candies.
i told him we should find him a real fruit.
i taught him how to fly again. he stole
a strand of my hair as a memento. i hope he
was just being sentimental & not planning
on some witchcraft but you know,
if he is i'm flattered. i might as well 
collect another hex. the fake watermelons
knock on the doors at night. my partner says,
"please don't let them in." i usually do 
& just hope he doesn't notice. i am not good
at being a wife. i am also not good at being
a husband. i enjoy most just being
something kept. a door inside a door.
i don't buy candy most of the time. i don't have
a reasonable hunger. i put off my cravings
so long that i just want to eat through
the day & into the midnight. juice down 
my face. the fake watermelons with their 
almost laughter. the sandpaper sugar
of a good sour dream. it is hard to be full
in a place like this. 

good liar 

i wish i was a better liar. i think then
maybe i would have a basement full
of dinosaurs & a car without a light-bright dashboard. 
instead, when i lie everyone can tell.
they can smell my hesitation from churches away.
i got caught shoplifting in college. i had become 
so cocky. a backpack full of jello. i ended up
paying for the whole thing so that 
the manager wouldn't call the police. i sat by the creek after. 
i had five dollars left in my account & i imagined
all the teeth i could buy with that. i see money 
not like a hoard but like a pile of sugar. i ate
strawberry jello & stared into the creek. 
considered catching fish with my hands. carrying
them back to my dorm & keeping them
in a little pond beneath my throat. raising them
to be wonderful children. all of us, escaping
for a gilled life without the same hungers. 
then, thought about what i had done wrong.
too much. too quick. i did not feel bad. everyone
at that grocery store had a clenched face
& they smelled angry. i guess i was angry too.
i have been having a harder & harder time
lying & saying that i'm alright
when i'm really really not. i had the misfortune 
of talking to a politician recently & he bragged about
how much he loved homeless people, all while
he was evicting them from a shoulder of land
by the creek. some people use their tongues
for awful things. i guess i am jealous.
what kind of alchemy did he do in his head
to justify shoplifting hope from our dirt? 
i embrace the company of shoplifters. if i could
lie like him i am convinced i would try to use it
for good. maybe i could talk some money-handed 
people into buying us a stoplight to dance under.
maybe i could talk the winter into staying away 
for a few extra weeks to let us kiss the dandelions
goodnight. do not believe me though.
i am not a holy person & i never want to be. 
one of the people who lived in the encampment 
told a journalist covering the story,
"we are ghosts." i know tonight the man 
who loves homeless people is eating in 
the yellow light of house that could swallow 
thousands of tents. i ate all the jello. it was not
the last time i stole. i don't do that anymore. 
like i said, i am no good at lying & i think 
it might be too late for me to learn. 

little piles 

i live my life in 
small mountains. a pile
of fingers. a pile of letters that
for whatever reason we are unable
toss to the compost. my partner calls me
the architect of piles. this is sometimes
a compliment & sometimes a grievance. 
all the prophets these days are passing 
by in algorithm soup. i saw a post
a few days ago that read,
"i refuse to keep my house
looking as if we do not live there."
i do not even remember who wrote those words 
but suddenly, i am in love with our clutter. 
the piles of books & the piles of dried
corn husks. the piles of abandoned 
spider webs & the piles of shoes 
worn down to the earth. 
i do not want to have a life in which
my feet do not touch the ground 
& i do not ever track dirt into the hall. 
i want to live a life in which i sweep each night.
see in the dust pan a tiny night sky.
all the stars are lost marbles. beads from
a broken bracelet. i make another pile
& another. we go to sleep inside of one
& wake up in another. as a child,
i used tp be ashamed of our house's mess.
used to choose instead to meet friends
in the graveyard. piles of bones. piles of leaves.
now when visit my parents' house
i find a history of piles. the piles of tomatoes.
last of the season. piles of bills waiting
to turn back into moths. piles of 
our cut hair. year after year, falling as horses.
we live here. we live here. we live here. 

orchid keeper

i lose my head & live a tiny green life.
in my house-sitting days every place
had orchids. they liked to speak in parables.
once, i sat down & a white & blush orchid
told me, "there was a girl
without any parents. she emerged 
from the earth." i thought the flower
was talking about me so i ran away
& did not get to hear the end of the story.
what happened to her? is that why
there's always dirt under my fingernails?
i think politics are awful & i would rather
just sit with the orchids & try to not die. 
i hated caring for my clients' orchids. i was sure i was
watering them too much or too little. 
one woman had a husband with a whole room
of orchids. the chatter made it hard 
to sleep in that house. they talked all night,
repeating their stories to one another.
i spent the last dark of my stay, in their room
& let their voices wash over me. i craved an answer
to my wandering & thought maybe
that they had one. i lived on the cold side
of the sun. my bed was a staircase & 
the backseat of my grandmother's old car.
the orchids asked me, "do you want to become one of us?"
i turned them down. i was worried about
not being able to eat oatmeal anymore.
it's the small pleasures. an orchid spat off 
all her faces at me in a house with too many windows.
i harvested them. tried to put them back.
nothing left but big green shoulders
& a neck to the sky. the faces were of course
still talking. they promised me that 
on the other side of a bridge, there would be
a quiet place of syrup.  a story is sometimes the truth
& other times a comfort wagon. 
i do not think i am equipped to own orchids
maybe just to keep them. i know too well
how fickle they are. how easily a head is lost
& then we're in someone else's house
looking out the window at a night full of eyes. 

deer language 

i find a golden tongue
in the leaves. i put it in my mouth
& talk to the stars. their worries
are thick as squash soup. the deer come
because dusk taught them 
all the words they know. 
there is never enough time 
for sleep. i imagine hollowing out
a year with a wooden spoon. 
crawling inside & not having
to talk to any more fires. i crawl out of bed 
without wings again. i sew a pair of eyes
into the ground. bite the string.
once, as a child, a deer asked me,
"would you like a crown?" i felt
unworthy & so i denied it. the deer laughed
& said, "you cannot turn down
your antlers." i checked my head for weeks
terrified that i would wake up
with antlers budding from my head.
they never came but now i feel them.
the weight of holding a piece 
of the sky. each of us, little billboard painters.
i leave a puzzle with missing teeth. 
the deer, the same one that once visited me,
returns headless. he speaks using
the arms of the trees. his prophecy,
urgent now, is, "talk to all 
the colors you can before it is too late." 

unkept pronouns

let's never talk about the government again.
build a house with chicken legs to escape in.
i want to eat honeysuckles & learn
the language of the mosquitos so that i can bribe them
to drink my enemy's blood & tell me
what it tasted like. i have been
letting my pronouns get unruly lately. 
call me what you think i am. it's a game of
visibility. i am your magic 8 ball. shake me
& i'll give you a fortune or a warning.
aren't all fortunes warnings though?
if i lost my sense of taste i don't think i would
eat less. instead, i crave sugar like a butterfly. 
i have a bad habit of throwing things out
in preparation for a sudden & urgent runaway.
i get rid of the hedge trimmers & the scythe. 
the pronouns get weedy & unkept. the government 
punches a hole in my ear & tags me
like the dairy cows who roam the pasture looking
for a way out. i promised i would not
talk about the government but i am really sick
of considering what i should hide. i am too tired
to be anything but a menace. i let me pronouns
attract bugs. i get the hoa called on my pronouns.
they cultivate wild raspberries & i eat them
all myself. red-fingered & sweet. dandelions come
& sing their yellow hearts all night. a family member
buys me a push mower for christmas.
i bury it. i will not be tending this mess. 
i want to see how wild i can get. 

deep-fried communion wafers 

this is my get-holy quick scheme. 
we become miracles. maybe i'll wear 
stigmata & you can cry milk. we'll attract
all kinds of people. the believers & the curious
& the atheists. we'll make a carnival out of it.
neon halo. a lemonade stand. 
somewhere on the side of the highway that
makes a belt across the state. 
maybe we can take over that old building
that used to house the model train showcase. 
glow beneath a jesus billboard that asks,
"are you ready for him?" 
i'll dress in white & you can dress in black. 
we'll make big beautiful promises 
that never go anywhere. then, in the dark,
we can kiss each other like only trans people can.
we'll sell deep-fried communion wafers 
& offer them with powdered sugar.
tell everyone to lick their fingers clean. 
once, when i was an altar girl 
i dropped a consecrated host. i felt so bad about it.
i still believed that little piece of bread
was god. i actually still think it is but 
in a different way now. in the sense that there
is no god so we have to be him. 
we can get a few good years out of being
roadside holy. maybe make enough money
to buy a farm. i tell you all the time
about how badly i want a cow. we'll settle down
but still travelers will come to us.
they'll say, "i saw you years ago. you prayed
over us & we ate deep fried communion wafers." 
we'll make them again in a stove pot. 
i'll bring out my stigmata. you, a glass
of milk wept fresh for our visitors.