fly life cycles

i try to reason with the bugs.
i have become much more empathetic
to their cause the older i get. 
the flies who are born in the sink
have more in common with me
than billionaires. i tell them,
"i too arrived the shadow of 
a shadow of a shadow." i am an egg
in a country of stairs. the older the fly,
the easier to crush. i tell them,
"here is the door" & "here is the window"
& "here is how to leave & never
return." they do not listen. instead,
they revel in my syrups. my sweet library.
swell in the wild of my compost bin.
maggots & their friends. i long
to writhe like them. a muck disciple.
blessed are the decomposers or whatever
the beatitudes say. i find the spiders
to be the most sensible. they say,
"in the web, all my labor is my own."
some of them are as thin as beading needles.
i try to trust them. try to hope
their work will be enough to cull the house.
still, from time to time, i destroy their work. 
in the aftermath i feel strange. like a traitor. 
i look up & remember we are in the house of a 
house of a house. i too have
weaved all night just to have my worth 
swallowed by something large & 
unnamable. i wish i could put back
what i broke. the spider though is 
vacuum buried. the web, vanished.
the windowsill, clean. 

carriage rides

i am afraid of how i will reach you
when the roads turn to bone 
& the trees are on fire. i buy a horse
from a man in the sky. the horse
is glorious. we ride her all the way
to a soft peach skin place. we waste 
our days talking about the future
when there is no future to talk about.
instead, we should be focused on
how to squeeze the dark. get the last
few drops of syrup. pour it across
our skin. you build us a carriage from
an old car & a hole in the wall. 
i play with the bridle & you get too serious
& tell me you never want me to carry you.
that, if i have to, you want me 
to burry all the papers & pretend
we are new to the earth. we ride in 
the carriage to the last restaurant 
on earth. the windows are full of 
menus, always changing in the depleating
meat situation. we are not there for burgers.
that would be insulting to the horse.
instead, we are there for fried potatoes
& coleslaw. we need a little mouthful
of the dazzling chrome diner. 
the world closes in. the carriage, such 
a beautiful work of endurance, swallowed
by the creeping sun. everyone has 
more fingers than they know what
to do with. the horse stays. thank god 
for the horse. we use her to get out
of there before they make us bus boys.
no again. i can't do that again. 
i want to believe there is a gas station
or a defunct church we could use
to hold each other. in the dark you ask,
"do you remember the big car?" 
the truth is that i do not. i remember
things used to be easier but i am not sure
if that is because the world is so much thicker
or if it is that early love soothes 
the fires even if they are in your windows.
i put on the bridle even though 
you asked me not to. i trot around the room.
i take us to the house, now just a cluster
of roots. it is at least somewhere to sleep. 

husband

we met our husband in the dark.
he had arms full of groceries 
that turned out to be only eggs.
cartons & cartons of eggs. we both 
had wanted a husband for so long
we had forgotten what we wanted
him for. to carry things? to fix the roof?
to have something to mourn when he left?
he would not leave though. instead,
our husband sat on the sofa & watched
whatever sports he could find. he would
laugh too loud & then shout sometimes
at a rerun game. we were on edge. 
then, one morning, we noticed what
he was doing with the eggs. he was 
swallowing them whole. we had wondered how
he managed to stay so meaty without
consuming any of the meals we made for him.
this was the terrifying answer. we decided 
to not let him know we'd seen him. avoided him
in the house as much as we could. 
i remember years ago when we met
& we talked about labels. would we be husbands?
partners? beloveds? definitely not wives. 
the term would never hold me. it was like
a cullender & i was the water. you have always been
more of a husband than me. i begin to worry
that you eat eggs like that too. that you
swallow whatever you need whole. when you
are asleep & the husband is asleep i get up.
i inspect your face for signs that 
you have been learning how to be a husband
from our invited intruder. i find none. 
feel guilty for not trusting you. 
in the morning dark i ask you, "will
you help me catch him?" you breathe, "yes."
a relief. he was easier than we thought he'd be
to restrain. we walked him out into the middle
of the field far enough so that we were shore
he would struggle to find his way back. 
we like to think he is some else's husband now
though on years when the corn grows tall
i feel like i see him, thinner now. mouth like
a pried open soup can. hungry for 
something none of us can name. 

moth-filled

i've tried really hard to keep them
in the pillowcase. before we go to bed,
i go around the house, capturing 
as many moths as i can. my hands end up dusty
from their wing powder. they tell me,
"please, i want a light big enough
to keep us all." i lie to them.
i explain that in our sleep, every creature
can find a sun. i deposit them in the pillowcase.
i don't know when this started. you were
weeping about the plethora of moths
who inhabit the house. i needed a solution.
i could not bring myself to kill them. i tried
throwing them back outside. i tried 
talking to the spiders who explained,
"they are too large for our mouths." i even tried
walking them to the mailbox & telling them
they could have that little cavern all to themselves.
the bedroom has long been their favorite host.
with one light & our undulating griefs
if becomes a place suited to afterlives.
i often see the moths in my dreams. the same ones
who live in the pillowcase. this is my evidence
for the theory that if we all pressed ourselves
tight enough together we could share the same
sleep world as we do the awaking one. 
i feel them glass beads & secrets. this is more
than enough for the moths. somehow 
the pillowcase never runs out of room. 
it is deeper than i could have even imagined.
sometimes the moths will ask, "when are you
going to come too?" i put it off. i tell them,
"i am supposed to be a husband." they say,
"we are all husbands in the dark." i flick on 
the light switch at the back of my throat
so my eyes can shine in their infinity space. 
for a moment i am the moth mother. a salvation,
then the lights off. the darkness. so so many wings. 

old woman in a shoe

i learned nursery rhymes late. 
drug around my father on a leash. 
the sky has toe nails. the sky has teeth.
on the mountain everyone was my mother.
the neighbor without teeth & the neighbor
with the horrible dog & the neighbor with
stained glass eyes. beyond the trees lived
a woman inside a shoe. she did not have children
like in the story. instead, she had bells.
i would ask her, "am i ever going to be
a real baby?" she fed me whatever i asked for.
bagels & butter. bruised peaches sugary 
from their squashing. she always said, "it is too late."
i knew that. i have several gray hairs. i have
hair on my back. still i remember begging
my adults to swaddle me & pretend i am
a baby their found in the middle of
the jungle. the old shoe woman does this for me
only once. it is a day when i am so sick
the sounds of rain turn me to dust. she says,
"i know you need this." i don't remember how
i got home but i assume she carried me.
no one else in town ever believed me about her.
i still sometimes leave a shoe outside
in the hopes she will inhabit it & start
tending me again. the truth is though she is elsewhere
making a baby of someone who needs it
more than me. often i wonder if i am becoming
an old woman who lives in a shoe. i take pride
in holding who i can. then, pulling the laces tight
& slipping into a home that is dark & musty. 
soft scent of leather. children quiet in the dark.
their eyes, like coins in a well. 

aubade with the chickens

i ask the chickens what love means 
to them. they respond with their 
round little curious eyes. i remember
when they fit in my hand. we kept the chicks
in the little dog crate upstairs while
they grew. the rooster, now mighty 
& spurred, was always the first to try &
escape. he'd run around the room
tearing papers. i think he was just looking
for the sun. it was april by the time
we got everyone outside. the fresh coup
like a palace. they told each other 
stories from the roost at night like, "have you seen
the stars eat each other?" & 
"do you believe in winter?" we have
not lost one yet. there have been hawks 
& cats & snakes still all of them remain.
i have come to learn the meanings
of some of their sounds. "come on" &
"there is something delicious" & "please stay"
& "be careful." i make the vocalization
back to the birds. they look at me like
"you do not know what you are saying."
this is true. i come asking about love
because i feel a great & growing lack 
around me. surely the chickens must know
something  i do not. about the soil.
the worms. the flavor of dusk. 
they do not respond. instead, they feast
on herb-smelling crumbles. sip fresh water.
shove each other like brothers. lay their eggs
in the pine chips. a cluster of planets.
yolks, their gift-wrapped light. 

first communions

i help my grandmother out
of the oven for the fourth time 
this week. she is covered in grease.
she says she was making a cake
for my first communion.
i had my sacraments years ago.
i put on a white dress & everyone
celebrated me becoming a mouth.
i hated the taste of the old host.
at my church they baked fresh unleavened bread
instead of the wafers most people know. 
it was grainy & dense. i tried
to imagine it turning into flesh. 
metallic taste of a tired god's blood. 
my grandmother does not remember much.
just that we are supposed to be celebrating.
she sits at the kitchen table. she claps 
at nothing. starts making the cake again.
first cherry then dirt then butterflies. 
she tells too much truth. she says,
"i do not believe in any of this."
i feed the cakes to the moon. his
great big tongue like a wave. i tell him,
"my grandmother won't move on."
the moon says, "move on where?"
i do not believe in an afterlife. i believe
in a body life & a lingering life &
those can flow between each other.
my grandmother never head a body life.
not really. now she wants one badly. 
i tell her i cannot give her what i also
barely have. she chases me with a spoonful
until i take it. taste of roots & thorns. 
she asks, "how does it feel?"
i tell her, "like communion." 

shark fin

i'm sorry i have to cancel
our plans again, it is time for me
to scream with the moon. 
my brother asks me if i think 
we could devour parts of each other
& still survive. why would
you want to survive that? i have
a single finger in my stomach
& i am not going to tell you whose 
it is. just know i needed to do 
what i did. when they harvest shark fin
for delicacies they often do not use
the whole shark, instead they throw the
creature back into the water, finless. 
when i think about healing this world
i think about those sharks. the sharks
on land & the sharks in the sky.
who held the knife? who threw
you back. dinner candles & an open
window. i used to be able to sit
in the yard & name the constellations.
now i struggle to find
the north star. i just look up & see
a red ocean. no fins to tell us 
where the sharks are. we learn
to make bodies of each other. my lungs
in a shark stomach. i call you & ask
if you can come & harvest teeth
from the yard with me. i do it alone.
you are a ghost. i am a shark. 
the fisherman learn to choose wisely
what kind of deal they make with the water.
the sun, finless at dusk. what do you do
with your lost limbs? who is eating them?
do we track them down & seek
revenge or do we try to grow them back?

bottle neck

i would walk barefoot 
on the moon if you let me.
there are rocks in the sky
& rocks in the mailbox. i drive
without a car through a night
full of police. in the traffic throat 
we are playing a bad radio. we are
calling the sun down into 
a plastic water bottle. i do not
have enough fingers for everything
i need to do. hold the egg. 
break the door. excavate the heart.
we dig with our bloodied nails
in the bottle dump in the hopes
of finding a medicine. an antidote.
the vessels all arrive empty.
i want time to be less liquid. i find
i spend way too much of is trying
to carry the day elsewhere. 
out of the well. into bank accounts.
into wet dollars. instead, i want 
my time to come like glass. something
to look through. to break & forge again.
green glass not like a beer bottle but
like a jar of airplane light. i do not 
even know how to bleed anymore.
my time keeps turning into birds. 
i catch them & feel sorry for them so 
i always end up letting them go
with a handful of cereal. when the road
opens up it is like we were never waiting.
like the moon was never in the cupboard.
the police are still there though 
doing inscrutable machine things
on car computers. the clouds smooth
their skirts. we try to get home. 

sex robot shopping on a friday night in allentown 

you tell me you want a wife.
i do not try to say, "but i am a wife
for all intent & purposes." 
instead, i search with you. 
we sit on the bruise sofa & select
her mouth & her hands. outside
last night someone was turned into
a bouquet of fake flowers on the street corner.
now, there are caution ribbons. the ghost
of cop car lights. 
i realize i do not really know you
every time you tell me a story from
when you were younger. we share 
a little terrarium in a city of old glow.
our apartment has remnants 
of gold times. this landlord has 
painted over the box that once
could call a doorman. there is a closet nailed shut.
i do not ask questions. i just try to live.
to sleep. the neighbors fill their rooms
with sound. become organs of the dark.
your wife is beautiful. customized. ready
for purchase. where will we keep her?
in the bed between us? on the sofa
like a babysitter waiting for us
to fall asleep? you tell me you want
a dish washer. you want a 
new car. i tell you i am not eating
pennies anymore. close my eyes
& ask you if i look like her. you always
have been too honest for me. 
you say, "no." we do not buy her.
we close the webpage. you say, "someday"
& i repeat it back like a call & response. 
we spend the night without any doors. 
you ask me if i have ever wanted my own.
i lie because i don't want you 
to feel bad. i say, "yes" when i mean
"no." instead, i just crave a body
of my own. i imagine designing myself
on a sex robot website. here are my bright eyes.
my silicon skin. my mouth, shut.