uses for a violin

to sleep inside. to dream of
new hands. to become a sibling again
without all the rush of a new century.
i was jealous of your playing
so sometimes i would open the instrument
without you. i touched the bow 
just like no one is ever supposed to.
the horse hairs pulled tight to sing.
to paddle in a river of ghosts. to stand
on the chimney when the storm comes.
to call to someone far away, the notes
like parachuters across the cemetery hill.
still i hear someone playing when 
all of our smallness is gone. i will open windows
& doors trying to find you. to grow up
together is like trying to find
the end of a ladder. the attic, a shrine
to dead wall beetles. to hide a set of keys. to hide
a gender. to keep a religion without a god.
to fill with coins enough to buy 
our way out of this place. i used wish 
i could wake up & play like you did. 
my fingers, like tight rope walkers into
a place with no floor. you in the ocean,
using the violin as a life raft. the blue coming
stronger now. a ladle of bones. our father
in the crawlspace looking for violins.
the violin, unlike the guitar, has no instructions.
no "here is where to put your fingers." you have
to feel for the note. a voice beneath the skin.
you, holding the song by the neck. 

cave cricket

i turn myself tangle-legged
& follow the cave crickets.
they arrive when i am too busy 
to tend to their voices like thumbs
inside a metal throat. they tell 
fragment stories. i explain to them
that i am scared of the future.
they are confused by the concept
of fear. a heart to them is just a place
you run from. their bodies
& my body, the same in this regard.
i do not sleep well. instead, i make a second home
among the night creatures. we get into
a routine of holding tiny confessions.
i apologize for promoting catholicism
even in this covert form. the creatures
are not good at confessing but they come
to learn. finally they are saying,
"i did not miss him when he disappeared
into the fields" & "i crave my mother
even though i never met her."
i get to confess too. i tell them about
my need to be liked by everyone i meet.
the crickets ask, "do you know you are
not a carnivore?" i said, "i guess i do not."
the crickets teach me how to turn my body
into an instrument. we thrum together
until i have to go & get a knuckle's worth
of sleep. the crickets stay up. i hear them
in the walls & all the creases of the house.
i am envious that they get to keep
their skeletons on the outside. instead,
mine is buried like backyard bones. 
soundless. still i find ways to make it sing. 

snow picture 

even in august sometimes i'll see 
the ghosts of my snow drawings.
roaming the yard as a kid i would write creatures 
with my footsteps. they have aged.
once soft lines, now ragged in the wind.
they have eyes like catacombs. ribs 
to row a boat. in the living room one ghost
peers in the window while mom & i talk
about death. the aunts whose house we
had to gut. the walls gone so quickly. 
my father walks with the snow animals.
he feels horrible for being the one
to gather & make sense of their belongings. 
trash bag after trash bag. ugly clothes 
& stained mugs. my aunts did not live lives
of things. no designer bags. no gold jewelry. 
batteries burst inside old alarm clocks. 
instead, they gathered pears from the tree 
behind the house. filled a broken cookie jar.
watched re-runs of the phillies. their lives 
had so little to do with what they used to live. 
they, like the snow animals, are more than
their water or their windows. still just like my father
i find myself craving to drive back to that house & find
it all the same as it always was. maybe it would
be covered in snow. icicles from the roof.
the snow animals show my father how to lay down.
we find him in the garage looking for crosses.
looking for prayer cards. looking for rosaries. 
everything, too much. the sun, never strong enough
to take all the creature out of us. my mother 
& i talk about the church of bones. skulls & ribs.
she says something like, "all of those people 
had lives." i think she is trying to say
that in the end we keep our ghosts. the animals
sleep in the kitchen with him. he asks me
if i think he's thrown away too much. 
i tell him "no" even though i am not sure. 

when i was your age

i have started to follow nostalgia instagram pages
which tells me i am on my way to being
seriously old. i am not afraid of it but
more curious what someone can do with 
this kind of longing. i don't want to be a kid
again but i crave portals into those sensations.
the texture the summer used to have.
why did it used to be softer? was it more vivid? 
with my parents, gone all day, my sibling 
& i would eat popsicles & walk to the park. 
i buy a time machine & it doesn't work. i try 
to tell my lover stories but the sounds 
& the colors & the light get stuck
in my words. he tries sometimes to do the same.
he is not as nostalgia-sick as i am though.
my family is like this too. i remember my uncle
telling us over & over about the first time
he went to wildwood or saw a baseball game. 
my dad loves to talk about the summer he went
to arizona with his dad. the quiet & the cactuses. 
at my parent's house i start to tell my sibling, 
"when i was your age..." unironically & i stop myself
embarrassed by my growing impulse to share
something un-sharable. i want to pull them
through a hole in time. show them snow
out a classroom window. fog pouring from the old
school bus as it waits to take us to a yellow tile hallway. 
feeding the turtle her minnows in the backyard kiddie pool. 
they ask what i was going to say & i brush it off.
i think of these hungers like links in a chicken-wire fence.
the way the metal always bends backwards.
tells the next eye, "i am coming home." 
the next time i see my dad i ask if he'll tell me again
about the quiet of the desert flowers. 

parking lot graveyard

on the day you died the parking lot
was empty. the city had turned into
a pile of shoe boxes. gardens without tenders.
i drove in circles. looking for someone else.
what i wanted from them, i am not sure.
maybe to tell them, "my aunt died today." 
familial terms in english always fail me.
"aunt" sounds like distance. i wanted to close
every distance. sit with you again in the rec room. 
my partner was at home packing pigeons
into her suite cases. the trains glided by 
empty of passengers. the graveyard 
up the block was spreading. i found
tombstones in the bathtub & 
down the alley to the apartment.
i found myself wishing i could have
talked to you a few more times. 
nothing wild. no confessions. maybe just 
coffee & morning tv. your mug, stained from
years of coffee turned decaf. 
the summer i lived with you & aunt flo 
was hot & frantic. i told you stories
about the daycare kids & then i drove away & parked
outside grocery stores. i called lovers weeping.
i did not know what i was supposed to be. 
you set your alarm clock to wake you up
with the radio. a man hurried-talking
in the purple hour. once, half-asleep,
i thought there was someone else in the house.
a ghost maybe? one of your old lovers
or maybe your father blown from the top
of a steam engine? i built you a grave 
in the parking lot because i couldn't 
drive to see yours. it was made from
stolen daffodils & kitchen sage. in every 
parking spot i found graves. it was like 
by making yours, i had created a channel 
from with all the dead could gather. 
i wish i could have shown you
my corner of the city. the lights &
all the colors of the pigeons. you would
have loved it.  strangely, i wonder if your grave
is still there in the parking lot
behind the flower shop & the sushi place.
you taught me when i was small
that anywhere could be divine. a diner 
or a porch or the shag carpet turning animal 
after all the years of keeping. 

august highway 

i have summer by the collar saying,
"please i need more time." the weeds
in the yard are wonderful & lush & lawless.
i keep dreaming of a world without lawns.
remove the "n" & i dream of that too. 
we drive farther than we ever have together.
it is a heat advisory & the tires melt into
the pavement. the earth's crust opens 
& all the dragons are out gnawing on trees.
i pick you a mushroom as a gift.
the kitchen at home is smelly like mildew
& dogs. god i want to be there. i think 
i am suited to a boat house if i didn't
enjoy jumping up & down so much.
some houses have two bathrooms. mine has
a goat & half a door. the heat makes me 
into soup. i hope i am good soup like
thick & meaty not any of this thin broth. 
in a parking on of a gas station we talk 
on the phone with our friend who is 
trying to time travel. we say, "just put
the phone down." she says, "but what if
i can see everything." lately, i think sanity 
is not fun at all. i think when i'm seeing bugs
that that is probably the big truth. 
the little truth is that it is harder than it should be
to walk in the tall grass. to find the heron
& request a fortune. it is getting hotter.
still this is my season. the kind of mirage 
it casts is the only place i want to live.
between radiating highway hills & the deer
who manage to browse & find sweet 
greens to eat in the shade. i join them 
& you scold me. you say, "we are trying
to find an exit." in august every day 
is a back door. i knock. you let me in.
we let night come. moon heavy 
& threatening to burst. 

landlord guillotines  

i think i got my impulse towards
retribution from being raised catholic. 
i read dante's inferno in high school
for fun. drew circles of hell on my bedroom wall
& then swam in them. fire & ice & weeping. 
i keep seeing a post on instagram 
that reads, "it's not communist to care
about people." i am trying not to feel
despair about how far we have to go.  
i am not a guillotine kind of girl. 
in a renter's facebook group a landlord posts
whining about how no one wants to pay rent.
he says, "i have two empty rooms 
i'd rather give to stray animals." i try to sketch
his cruelty. a wad of wet socks in the corner
of a mcmansion. his empty lettuce bags
in a tall trash can. i am fascinated by 
the reasons other people have for being alive.
if it is not to love each other than why are 
you here? does this man want money?
does he want to feel powerful? does he feel
he was promised more than he receives?
i get my punishment brain involved.
i dream of a land of doors where landlords 
have to walk. it is cold or it is raining. no door
will open for them. they will want to sleep
but never feel that release. an endless hunger 
for a place to rest. sometimes when they 
quiet their own breath, they will hear 
a laugh behind a door. the wood will 
feel warm but they will not reach it. a storm will
open up & they will be drenched to the bone. 
i have been keeping a folder of screenshots
of horrible things i have seen people say online.
i do not know what i intend to do with it.
maybe i am compiling evidence 
for the angels or else it is for myself. evidence of what?
i type out a dozen responses to the landlord's post
& don't send any of them. he is hiding behind
a blank profile. i imagine him just as 
fist in the dark. his future rain, coming. 

lock-picking practice with you

on the side of the highway we 
have to get into your face. a hawk
comes & says, "that is not your car."
on our second date you showed me 
how easily you could enter any door.
you laid out your lockpicking tools
on the kitchen table in the apartment
without any air conditioning. i remember
the fan stirring the afternoon like a spoon
in thick broth. the implements reminded me
of dentist picks. i opened my mouth.
you laughed & said, "let me work for it."
we got into your car & drove until the towns
lost their stop lights. until the mountain
was hairy & real. i build futures 
wherever the sun is toothless. the hawk
would unlock the door to my apartment
& you would come in uninvited. 
i didn't mind so much. i was in the process
of losing my sense of self. the town asked,
"are you staying?" i replied, as i always have,
"no, i have to open another basement."
you showed me how easily a lock 
can come apart in the right hands. 
gentle, never forceful. the sliding
of each tooth into place. i would wake up
with a man in my mouth who 
i didn't remember. instead of kicking
him out i would give him a key & explain,
"i do not know what i want, you can 
tell me if you like." he would respond,
"tell you what you want?" i reasonable question.
me, "yes." once when you were asleep 
i took the tools into my own hands.
decided to practice on the safe in the back
of your closet. i worked for hours. could not
remember your technique. the safe
turned into a hawk. red tail. he said,
"open yourself first." i ran away. took a walk
around the block. looked at the houses 
without windows & the empty mountain church. 
everyone was playing with their lockpicks. 
when i came back the hawk was telling you
what i did. it was actually a relief
to have a truth to suck on together.
you asked, "what are you trying to find?"

microwave egg

we could get married in the microwave.
we could invite your parents up here
& make dinner in the microwave. i put 
a sewing machine in the microwave
& start working on a veil. it is either 
my first communion again or it is the wedding. 
in college i invite boys to the microwave.
some of them turned out to be girls
& some were birds who i fed black oil sunflower seeds.
when the building was on fire i grabbed 
the microwave & ran outside. who needs
a computer when i have this? 
why would i write a book when i could
just put my tongue in the microwave
& have you all watch? i conducted experiments.
a single popcorn kernel. a telephone. an egg
that wobbled before becoming a black chicken
in the hum. i opened the door so fast & held
the little creature. she was confused but unharmed.
i raised her until she grew up to be a hawk. 
do we all grow up to be hawks? i like to hope not.
when i first moved in with you, you had no
microwave. the house was full of ghosts (derogatory).
i bought a shiny new one. i filled it with wedding rings
& turned it on high. i wanted to show you
how much i wanted to be kept. you put me
in the microwave & i sobbed. i loved to be so small. 
i did not hurt like i always thought it might. 
instead, it was like entering a pastel portrait.
oil & thumb. i survived but emerged like
another one of the ghosts. now i am asking
if we can get a second microwave. if maybe
we can decorate the inside. if you might
love me in the way that will survive 
the end of the world. i google how to make
a microwave work without power in case
one day the country folds up like a trapper keeper.
i'll be ready. our wedding, an egg. 
the birds, in the past & the future. 
you tell me i should not stand close 
to the machine while it is working but
where else would i go?

estate sale

while you look at chairs on the porch 
i stand in the yard
beneath an apple tree burdened with 
so much fruit. the street is usually quiet
& a neighbor smokes barefoot 
in his front yard, making sure none of
the visitors park on the grass. 
another neighbor is on the phone.
she's saying, "there's just so many people.
they just keep coming."
you love estate sales. they overwhelm me. 
so much emotion. the frenzy of the visitors 
& the ghosts of an emptying house. 
i try to imagine the place before
its final dissection. this one was feels special
because a gay couple lived here.
their queerness sewn into the bookshelves 
& the collections of paintings. fish 
& men & trees & birds. strings of shells.
a little bin beneath the bed with stage makeup.
feather headpieces. did he do drag? just liked
to entertain? in the basement a leak soaks
the floor. a woman shoulders past me
to get a look at a pile of frames.
in the corner i find a stack of porn tapes
like an altar. were they shared between husbands
or did they just belong to one of them? 
you pick out a cowboy hat & a leather working tool.
a painting of trout. i find an alice b toklas cook book
laying, wings spread open, on the kitchen floor. 
standing in line to pay for our fragments
i imagine the dining room set for guests.
knocking on their door & telling them
we are family even though we do not know each other.
i guess i am not sure what kind of gays 
they were. maybe they would find us strange
or maybe they would show us
their paintings. tell us the stories of where
the shells & the earrings & the mirrors are from. 
maybe there would be a bowl of apples 
on the dining room table plucked from
the tree in the yard, arms not weighed down
by the so much fruit. in the car 
on the way home i regret not buying
all the porn tapes. i would have no use for them
but who else there was going to steward them?
i could have kept them for decades. let them fade
even more from the sun. leave them in a little pile
so that one day when an estate sale finally
finds this place we dwell, that another wandering queer
might find them & take them home
with no use for them.