Slippers

I want to put on the right atmospheric
Pressure. Several holes in the ceiling 
Were left there by the last tenants.
I stare right through to a space ship.
Glowing crown of abduction & then nothing
But cellophane night. How do you open 
Your sleep? I keep a jar of straws ready.
Another hurricane with my name approaches 
My oldest shoes & turns them over like
Life rafts. I suck the pink from flowers 
To use for a future gender. Spend all day
In my slippers without noticing. A long 
Sunlight-sleepover with my own specters.
Scraping extra statues from the walls
& listing them on eBay. I need a few 
Hundred dollars if I’m going to buy
A bicycle. These times call for 
Man power. Legs peddling. Tightropes
Multiply & I get so thin I don’t need 
To pay them any mind. I was radical 
But I’m an inexpensive way. Nothing is
Really biodegradable except for flesh &
Sometimes hope. Leaf flesh & orange pith & dead bird. Plastic afternoon. Plastic 
Slippers to wear out to the graveyard 
Where no one is buried yet. 
Some would call this just a field. 

jars of moonlight for depature

i used to wait for rapture,
face open like a can of green beans,
palms wide to flocks of orange.
i stand by for the flood. buy rain boots
made of seaweed & tea cups. talk to the sewer
& say, "tell me where you carry 
your leaves." my friend washes mason jars
free of their sticky blackberry jam guts 
& i steal them in preparation. if no one else
is going to savor each moon, than it will be
up to me. as the oven heats we talk about
how almost everyone thinks to themselves
"i am the only one who can." i promise you
i am not the only one who can do this.
dipping the mouth of a jar into
the moon's bright forehead. telling the moon,
"this will only hurt ofr a second." did you know
rocks feel pain? not just blunt force
but emotional too. sometimes sandstone
will twinkle with the memories of ground
& grit. jewels weep recalling the great pressure
that bore them. we all know that feeling--
forced into crystal & a mouth bleeding sugar.
i keep the moon light all for myself
but, one day, when we need it,
i'll approach strangers & say, "i know a place
where you can drink the moon again."
they will follow me. i will be 
the only one. the only one in the world
with so much moonlight. i'll give them
the whole jar & say, "tell no one."
there are many form of greed. i'm giving you mine
because i am aware the sky is moving out.
boxes on the curb of the universe.
she is spitting blue out one comet at a time.
i too want to rid myself of everything
for which i've come to be known just to see
what would be left. i lied though,
i do spend some of the light on myself.
sit cross-legged on the hardwood floor.
spoon in hand. take one mouthful.
fill with ancient talking. maybe i am 
anticipating more than i'm ready to admit.
if you take me up, i want to go piecemeal.
bone by bone until one day there is
only the grin of a rib & then gone. 

spaceship in a bottle

tweezer me towards the moon.
i take a length of twine & use it 
to dangle my own stars. fixing them
from bits of teeth-light. the bottle 
was a shipwreck. frosted from 
salt-breathed water. a mermaid once 
cradled the object like a child then,
left it go in favor of a shell.
my desires for space are not neon 
or even canvas. they are handfuls.
melon water & pinched raspberries.
a thumb in a box of chocolates.
i have never needed air before.
in the depth of space i might even 
see a comet call me "brother." i have
so much rock & rupture ready in me.
when i was a girl i would climb up
on my roof & challenge celestial bodies
to boxing matches. take bruises 
all across my skin. every burst vessel
a brief nebula. in the bottle i place
the cockpit & then build the ship around.
red sides. glass window. fuel enough to light 
the whole year on fire. set the craft 
on my bedstand & instruct it not
to leave without me. i'm waiting 
for myself to go miniature. 
it's only a matter of days now. i can 
already feel my lungs shrinking to the size
of grape. i have lived sweety on this surface.
soon i will go. bottle & all
into the darkest evergreens & homemade stars. 

earbud 

in march we looked for tadpoles.
found them wriggling like commas in the muck.
each a little inhale. i want a pause
not a body. green algae. a plastic bucket.
my father & i with the satellites on our backs.
carried them back home away from the pond.
outside our house we picked out our favorites 
& slipped them into our ears to hear them
tell us stories of their past lives.
one sang like a trumpet. another called
long & lonely egret notes. i laid on my back
as the tadpoles worked, sewing a seam 
between our bodies & theirs. earbuds pulling us
into & through old lives. one tadpole,
a shoe maker, asked me if i knew his daughter.
i lied & said we went to school together.
this helped him rest. i am still unsure 
if a lie can sometimes be useful if it helps
another creature rest. i hope the tadpole
never finds out the truth. 
they are all frogs now though.
by the time they are frogs the tadpoles 
forget all the oldness. speaks only of 
fear & hunger & out of the blue
occasionally, they will return to sit on our porch.
short shadows in the lamp light 
on a humid evening in july. i go sit with them.
i tell them. "we spoke when you were tadpoles."
they blink, unknowing. i used to think 
getting older was a deepening. a process
of wading further & further into a pond.
with the frogs here i know i am getting farther
from my oldest mouth. finally, the frogs depart.
back towards a verdant sleep. then, me too,
with my ears empty, crawling into 
a soft cluster of my own making. 

celestial noise

i asked you, "can you hear that?"
we were sitting on the highest branches
of the old playground oak tree 
taking spoonfuls of night. i fed you
& darkness dripped from the corner of your mouth
down your neck. all the stars were old tamborines
& we had no where at all to go. the sound
was like a stampede of aluminum foil
or the opening of the oldest jaw. 
then, almost like placing a fresh ear
to the lips of a conch shell. 
we were no longer lovers but friends
who could recount the stories of each other's skin.
you with the constellation freckles. me with
the scar from a thorn in my side.
the last firefly of the year held on
speaking her light in the hopes of getting a response.
all the cars on the road drove towards
supermarkets or gas stations. we closed our eyes
to hear the sound more clearly. "yes, i hear it,"
you said with eyes closed. the language 
of the stars & the planets vibrated our bones.
i remembered the first time we kissed
like toads in the damp woods. two boys 
with our ankles made of brush. his messy
brown hair. finger in a belt loop.
sitting on a rotting log. squishing black beetles
that ran scared from us. i believed 
we were giant. then, here, taking a handful of sound
& pocketing it. texture of sand. already seeping out.
i didn't want it to be over. i wanted to ask
can we stay this old? can we keep the sound
underneath out tongues? our shoulders touched.
the universe swelled like the truth of balloons.
hummed & hummed. turned our teeth purple
with her singing. shed a star or two 
which fell as piles of light. cast long shadows
of our forms. two boys in the dark. 

t-rex dentures 

my mouth fossilized & became scavenger.
tore of pieces of carrion. talked only
to vulutres. circled above & spat
black feathers into the pillow. an intertube
to keep us afloat. downpour but not forecasted.
a hand open to catch the wind. my teeth
formed a chorus. held their hymnals
& asked if we were ever going to own a fence.
sleeping in the footprints of strangers,
i often ask, "what did you once want to be?"
a boy replied once, "i wanted to be a dog."
another, still naked, said, "a tree."
i said, "for me i wanted to be a dinosaur."
buying lizards & asking them to show me 
how to excavate my dna for prehistory.
teeth growing ripe on trees. paleontologists
in my medicine cabinet, sneaking out at night
to gaze down my throat. whenever i lose 
i replace the empty space with a t-rex tooth.
stuffed in the corners of my heart. an elbow.
a memory. a new jaw waits for me.
he knocks on my door a half hour after he left
& he asks, "are you still there?"
i slip into the closet where ferns grow wild.
not a boy anymore. all reptile & carnivore.
"hello?" he asks again. i taste the air.
eventually he departs & when i return
there is no bedroom, just a field of televisions.
shows we once watched. one night can be a whole species.
my skeleton splayed out. a paleontologist bent over
& saying, "i hope you don't mind but i need
to take a picture." 

upon learning mantis shrimp don't really see 12 new colors humans don't

i want to know who, if not the mantis shrimp,
is blinking the thoughts of ancient fruit.
skimming the wild ocean for a color on 
the other side of blue. once, when i was sick
& living in the shadows of twigs, i witnessed
a color that moved like fangs. cut my hair for me.
swept the carpet & then spoke the language
of alarm clocks. you're telling me you've never 
conversed with yellow? asked for her secret
double face? the mantis shrimp is no stranger 
to red. puts on her cloak before hunting.
our conversations have gone on for centuries.
a human will kneel & ask the mantis shrimp
if it was god who made all the colors.
she will shake her head but refuse 
to admit who. she knows the color maker personally
& will only tell the secret to her children
in the shadow of a passing boat.
once a rainbow spread across my bedroom
like an organ. i keep blue closest to my heart.
let it warble. all the birds in a single hue.
i am trying to find that old color again.
the one who visited me not like an angel
but like a ghoul. a color has dreams & nightmares.
a color remembers when it was used for blood
& used for a mouth & used to force flowers to inhale.
i used to be so blurred my blood came out indigo.
told no one how off i was. waited for 
the wheel to turn. the mantis shrimp watched.
snipped pieces of light to savor. to keep the library.
little bright shelves. impossible word un-worded.
what can i tell you? i saw color yet to be named. 
the mantis shrimp come like priestesses.
tell us not to worry. ask again. ask again. 

piano wire

self-taught, i wrapped the certain thinness
around each of my fingers. tethered them
to cement trees. pretended to walk the dog.
the dog was a compost pile. the dog was electric
& out of batteries. piano knocked on our door
one afternoon escaped from a junk cathedral.
haunted with fingers it needed to be taken apart.
my father worked while i watched. the plyers had long
become moths so he used a knife & fork.
snipped each note from the creature's chest
until we werre no longer in danger of hearing a song.
i stole the wires though when he was gone.
drug them to the behind yard where feral cats
had made a graveyard. there i took to binding.
rock to arm. leg to leg. we could be
so close. a knot. i wanted to be tied to you.
to another someone. feel them breathe & bend.
wires left red halos across my skin. 
i am holier than the horizon line & maybe even
more godly than gold. i glint like CDs in sunlight.
take the wire & stitch clouds together.
suture wounds in the ground where hell peers through.
i'm not afraid of death. a ghost once told me
"it's less of a bang & more of a dwindling."
i always feel that happening so maybe it is
all the same sensation. i think of 
helixes & galaxies then i imagine wiring
a few together. a garden of staircases.
another piano gallops on its way to the ocean.
it will probably not reach the ocean.
i open my box of wire. draw out a single thread
& step out into the morning eager to find
a loosened face or a nestling to link back to nest. 
the dog is still unusable. i nudge him
with my shoe & go on my way. 

mother camera

i want to be surveilled.
sometimes i look into eyes & notice
a red ring which means that person is a robot.
i do not run but instead picture the video
they're getting of me walking to my car.
my apartment building has a camera in the front
& one in the back. i am a particle.
i am a gift-wrapped army man. 
tell my favorite color. tell me what it is
i'm culling the sand for. i bought
a metal detector to look for ancient coins
& square-head nails. the whole world is held together
by a few firm whacks. one big bridge.
but also a gravity graveyard. we put so much trust
in everything to keep moving down. 
i wave at the camera & ask if she's proud of me.
she does not respond. i put her birthday in my phone.
an alarm so i remember to thank her.
what kinds of gifts to cameras like?
a nest made of wires? footage of me 
praying to the old wooden gods? i will confess
to anything these days. i have nothing left to hide 
other than that sometimes hate both the words
"survivor" & "victim" but i want to be both.
i take comfort in the knowledge this will 
be easy for you. cradling warm images of me
until there's no me to watch. let's go 
down to the stream. i'll go barefoot.
even my feet have faultlines. i could have been
a good movie some years back but not so much now.
now i am a dreadfully reliable life. i ask her if 
she wants to see my finger prints.
they have gotten so much louder this past year or so.
she says, "no i already know them."
i nod, feeling silly. like i don't have
anything left to offer. instead, i let her watch me dance.
by the time i'm done i almost forget she's there. 
panting. red hula hoop. cameras in my eyes. 
i'm getting everything. it's comming as ribbon. 

clockmaker 

with a pocket knife he slices off
just one minute each year. glinting & small.
soft as a peach's face & sun-staring bright.
slips them into his knotted socks 
in the bottom drawer 
where no one will open them, 
releasing their quickness.
he knows both of time's rapidity
& its wideness. when he was a child
often he would linger in the shadow 
of his father's golden pocket watch
perched like a canary in a glass case.
between the twitches of the hands he'd house
fantasies & wave break & fairy homes.
so much could transpire in a measurement.
fingers dusted gold. secretly, he made watches
with extra hours for the most kind patrons.
then, for others, he folded time in half.
in the end, he knew it wasn't right.
mashing pace like this. the clockmaker
was supposed to create order. measure every skeleton
in the same container. i couldn't bear it though.
time was elastic. jumped from his hands
like tadpoles. ached as lichens.
as he slept, he could feel time ebb & flow
around him. opened his eye just a peep
to catch a second. glossy & gnat-sized
as it tried to skirt past. held the second tight
before stowing it in the drawer with the rest
of his savings. soon, he would cash it in.
soon he would make his own day. loud & thick.
alone in a world of only past.
until then, he wound his heart each morning.
the sun ate handfuls of sidewalk.
kept the drawer a secret. set out with his work.