box of lures

our fingers smelled like rubber & fish oil
as we laid his lures out on the carpet.
we were eight years old & both had 
soft hamburger-bun faces.
green wriggling creatures 
& smaller wide-eyed fish:
their bodies brandishing clean sliver hooks.
he told me he'd never gone fishing before
but that his father let him play with the lures.
i held one in each hand & closed my eyes,
said i was waiting for a great sky fish
to take the bait. we found coarse craft string
& dangled the lures out his bedroom window
trying to catch fathers or fish.
the river knocked on the bedroom door
& asked for our palms. we opened them 
& it placed there little tiny humans.
not dolls, but miniatures of ourselves.
pink & soft & still. i sympathize with fish--
how they bite down expecting flesh 
& receive wire & plastic but 
cannot let go of that mistake. we too have been 
ripped from where we used to breathe.
we caught nothing that day but one bird 
swooped past his lure. we mused about
what we might do with a cardinal in the house.
in another room his parents ate hard boiled eggs 
& took off their socks. the hard wood floors 
were cold & wobbly. fish were all around.
in the mirrors & the windows & between
our teeth but always just out of grasp.
never pinned down. we put the lures back
& i asked, "can i keep one."
he said, "no i need them all." 
so i slipped on in my pocket &
carried it with me 
in case of future fish.

appetite 

i took a bite out of my childhood
& it tasted like watercress & windmills. 
all the forks slithered away like snakes
on their silver bellies.
i once had a cup full of moon moaning
but spent it on the wrong kinds of boys.
now, i wake up to remind the sun of my name.
nothing to be afraid of. we washed 
our faces in the morning glaze.
my father wore his shoes to threads
until his bare feet burst through
leaving print in the snow.
what do you know about mouthfuls.
i want to be stuffed to the brim. i want
to be so so full. my best friend
pinched a wall of our house
& tore off a chunk to take a bite.
she spit the piece out in a napkin.
how do you learn to taste 
only what you want to & leave
the rest. my palette is ready 
for metal & misinformation.
i don't trust my memory. no one else
was there but me so i have
no one to corroborate the following images:
me as tiny as an ant munching on sugar me 
skating on the rim of my mother's wine glass me
slicing cheese as thin as paper
as holding it up to peer through.
no told me i was going to keep 
having a tongue. i used my teeth
like wind chime planks
& let the gust do what it wanted.
once, my brother & i microwaved 
a golf ball & chewed on the fresh surface
until we almost believed it was cake.
i want to trust in my own urges 
to eat nothing but sweets until i die
but i'm told i should be more balanced
with my hungers. we would walk out 
into the back yard & share 
a ladle of soil. pluck out the worms.
there was never quit enough.
the hole of each bagel widened 
like the sky eating the earth.
we ate with our eyes closed. we wore spoons
as necklaces. i sat on a plate 
like a little or devour. 
the oven preheated herself
to the temperature of a nervous face.

salvation is waiting at the back of a Hot Topic

i paint my nails black in my sleep.
kiss a window. break an 8-ball.
i woke up in 2010 & went back to sleep.
the sun was brighter & the global warming
had less of a grip. snow tasted 
less like metal & more like foliage.
the mall was less of a cathedral 
& more of a mirage. i wanted time 
to leave me alone. 
do you want to forget being sixteen?
when i was sixteen i wanted to forget
being sixteen. my skin was softer. 
i ordered blue color contacts on Amazon.  
i used to hope i could make
one of the Hot Topic sales people
fall in love with me if i stayed long enough.
asked the right questions. one pink haired boy
folding band t-shirts in the corner.
i had an extra eye & one less knee.
i stole pins-- filled my pockets 
with their little poems. 
my friends were all trying to smoke
on a porch. a roof was a flyleaf page.
i put on fingerless gloves 
to feel the texture of every shoulder.
stared at the case of body jewelry 
& considered where else i could
put holes in my skin: an earlobe, a belly button 
the arch of my eyebrow. 
filled my stomach with neon belts.
stared up at a galaxy dress
& dreamed of being a specific kind
of muse. made circles around the store
picking up & putting down items.
mostly, not buying anything but feeling like
there had to be something i was missing.
some other jacket or dress or shirt
that could make me feel punk. 
outside the store, everyone in the whole mall
was eating a pretzel. i sat on a bench 
& cradled a flip phone. planned to dye my hair 
purple. planned when i could
come back again. all my friends
with their black boots. my bare feet 
on linoleum. laying in bed & staring up
at the bunk bed lattices. 
good morning again, it's 2010. 

the zoo is closed

the last species exited through
a hole in the sun. ate a palm's worth
of cheerios & cut the chord.
lizard ghost shadows skitter
across the bathroom floors.
i am here to kingdom myself.
or, was i supposed to meet someone?
all the keepers have gone to heaven
& left their boots & their shovels.
when i was little i used to want
to fall into a lion enclosure 
& see what would happen. now, i sleep there
& futilely hope for their return.
when i say i want to be devoured 
i mean piecemeal. one limb at a time.
you know they can't keep sharks
in captivity. they go insane & die.
here is where the giraffes used to
whisper-talk with god & next door is where
meerkats dug holes to hell. 
i want to evolve faster. coat of fur.
maybe a tail. maybe a long hibernation
i could wake from & forget
most of the terrible things. 
in the giftshop i pick out trinkets
i would give to the monkeys. 
windup toy. claw. bouncy ball.
you know i wish we'd stayed like that.
yes, i know we weren't actually monkeys 
but imagine how soft a life could be
in a world of orangutans. 
maybe i'm idealizing them. maybe we would always
find modes for cracking terrain open.
once, i saw the moon cry. once i saw
the moon bleed & collected 
the thick blood in a little mason jar.
if i could see the animals in their cages
one last time i would release them
& let them destroy whatever they wanted.
take apart street lamps.
nibble on clouds. we all need
a release. on all fours i roam
the bear enclosure & try 
to remember what an afternoon
is supposed to feel like. 
i used to meet people. i used to 
eat from their palms. we used to
trade favorite animals & dream
about future cages. now, 
only the floors remain & i am 
just a fixture. i slip into 
the bird cages to search for
a single yellow feather
i can melt for butter.
i find none but i do see
snake tracks. smooth traces
pulled through the sand. 
i could get used to life on my stomach.
come visit me. i want to be
peered at. i wanted to be
all your boxed up dreams.
bring feed in a plastic cup. bring 
a necklace to snap at the crux.
what animal do you want to be?

the walls grew pears 

sugary & ripe, despite no one having planted.
a miracle. our wallpaper had been dead for years ever since
we forgot to sing to it through winter. when was the last time
you tried to keep something alive? i don't do a good job
with myself. sometimes when i forget to eat i make up for it
by swallowing a pebble. we put my brother in a terrarium 
when he was no longer capable of tilling the carpets.
fed him fish food from a tiny spoon. i would make
a pretty good lizard. press your face to the glass
& inspect my scales. who is measuring the passage of skin?
around the dinner table we discussed what kind of farm
we could have next year. i wanted to grow puppies
& they all want to grow hemp. we planted black beans
& hoped for the best. nothing sprouted. july ate june.
august ate both october & november.
we forgot who was supposed to be a son 
& who a father & who a grandfather & who a girl.
still nothing grew. we roasted fragments of asphalt
& repeated the word "farm" over & over until
it was strange & viscous. the truth is i always wanted
to have an orchard. i prayed for it once or twice
so maybe this was an answer from god. only, i'm not sure
if i believe in answers. all fruit is divine though.
i plucked the pears before they syruped & mashed
on the living room floor. cradled them like
puppies. little creatures waiting for a bite.
waited for a new sun to be born so we could
talk again of planting. i have swallowed 
so many seeds i rightfully fear a tree
tearing me in two. when it rains, i wrap myself
in a plastic cover & stay out of sight. 
the pears were sweet & needed to be eaten
right away. no time to forget. no time to question.
feast on top of feast. i even gave a piece
to my terrarium brother. his amphibian face
blank & dazed as he chewed the honey-sweet fruit.
i wished we could trade places. i wanted to let
my brain turn to sand. i am afraid of roots
in the walls & roots in my wrists.
cut the moon out to use as fertilizer.
who should be the mother this time around?
i ate so many pears my skin turned green
& slipped off. my own black seeds in the soup.
the others found them & pocketed my futures.
dried them on windowsills.
& still, now, they wait for the right
deluge to slip them between the floor boards.
i can't wait to be an orchard.

christmas / flesh

that year the tree was juicy.
i filled its basin with blood
each morning like a good boy.
steam poured from every arm.
meat feathers after a good slow roasting.
forks in our pockets.
i didn't hope for much. we were 
sacrificing for a nice ripe citrus.
gifts in their rinds. prayed to 
the butcher for righteous tender.
felt our arms & the cuts latent in them.
all the knives shivering 
in the drawer. me & the tree
discussed ovens & heat. discussed
damnation & sin. i hoped the tree
would keep my secrets. 
i told him i dreamed of
feasting on boys. opening my mouth
& letting them walk inside me, whole. 
the tree mutter my story
all day long. turned my fears
into apples & cannon-spat them.
bore a hole in the wall 
through which we all took turns
walking out to the backyard
where the bones go. i wanted 
something new. i wanted icing 
or at least a slice. 
everything melted & we wept 
for men. our hooks smiled
in the moon's glint. 
how do you learn to stop wanting love?
i tried to hold each wish
in my throat before they could turn 
tender & fatty. the butcher
knocked on the door with the butt
of his knife. laughed like
a hinge. praying is dangerous.
my brother prayed himself
into a white meat breast.
we filled our socks with sausage.
nothing was warm enough. 
tired of the truth we 
roasted fingers one by one
as a sacrifice. what will you give?
wrapping steaks 
in the backyard with plaid paper.
everyone will be thrilled 
for the surprise. no boys arrived.
not a single one. 
 
 

a list of past lives

i'm harvesting foot prints 
from the mud with a pair of pliers.
my brother was a dinosaur.
likely from the cretaceous. we discuss
what kind of humans the dogs were:
edward lived as a potter by the ocean
& gertrude was a black market trader.
you can tell a lot about 
an animal by watching 
how they fall asleep. my father
paces the living room 
holding a beer like a telephone. 
mom holds a phone like a daughter.
we have nothing to 
prove to each other anymore.
i take the footprints to my room
where i frame & hang them.
call each a "self portrait."
i hope i was a painter once
or at least a sculptor.
a poet is a not-quit artist.
sometimes i believe i could
throw myself off the side 
of a bridge
& possibly fly. was i a pigeon
or a man? once, i jumped
from my bedroom window 
& exploded in a puff of feathers.
i cleaned myself up.
i told no one. it's taboo
to confess you've discovered 
a past self. for instance,
i was kissing a boy
when i divulged "i lived 
as a silk worm." he nodded 
& kept kissing me. i wish he would
tell me his. the footprints 
always evaporate by morning.
someone doesn't want to reveal
where he's been.
i used to go & go & go
& now i just look out the peephole
& dream of a future self
who owns a tiny home 
or who eat whatever licorice 
she dreams of. or, best of all,
maybe a microscopic creature.
a lonely poet. spinning words
in a language only he knows
& then swallowing. 
i am looking forward 
to june but not july. 
soon, i will count the legs
of the sun & the rings around
my father's eyes. 
i ask a mirror
where are we?

aunt flo's shower

the summer i stayed with my great aunts
was as hot as a white flowers:
daisy & lily & finished dandelion.
their un-air-conditioned house
widened with humidity
like a great sponge.
i had five hangers in the closet 
& the rest of my clothes 
sat crumpled at the bottom
behind sliding wooden doors. 
i cleared a shelf in the fridge 
for my pudding & jello. stole a spoon
& a bowl. i regret treating my aunts
like ghosts as they moved
in their same patterns day after day.
watching with distant awe.
their wrinkled skin 
like silk curtains. 
radio at 6am. coffee machine babble.
i came home from work
in the middle of a soap opera 
where everyone was white & desperate. 
sometimes, we ate little sundae cups
on the AstroTurf porch. the aunts 
watched the sidewalk as 
children ran on licorice legs.
i noted layers of dust on the windowsills 
& on the bookshelves & even
angel statues. one night
aunt mary's pink shower overflowed 
& i had to use aunt flo's.
i stepped into her little bathroom.
blue title floor & walls.
mirror hung too high. 
only seeing half my face: nose up. 
i imagined how many days she's spent
preening by the glow
of one tired bulb. undressing,
i felt watched. cautious, letting
the water wash off the sun's grit.
that summer was so so short
& so so long. cool blue tiles
under my bare feet. 
my aunt flo & aunt mary
on either side of the sinking sofa
drinking coffee 
& waiting.

child-bearing 

my neighbor has a pocket knife
he uses to whittle trees into children.
he starts at the top
removing each limb one by one. 
the branches fall
as arms. elbow & all.
piles of limp forearms in the grass.
beneath dirt, their toes curled
like beans.
i watch from my adolescence-window
as he brings them each meal.
ladles soup down their throats.
warm biscuits & sometimes
a caramel. the tree children
ask him every night 
when he's going
to pull them up
& let them run away. 
the children dream of drinking
from rivers & writing a name
with chalk on the driveway.
after the limbs are removed
he works the torso.
thrusts into the tree's meat
working & working until
the figure starts to emerge.
for him, there are never enough children.
at night, in his house, the neighbor
reads alone. he opens a bible
but doesn't believe. likes the routine
of the passages. dog ears
the ones about salvation.
looks out the window
at the tree children 
as they try to sleep standing up.
then, looks across the way to me
& our gazes meet for a moment
between the glass of both our windows.
he doesn't blink. he nods
& all night i dream 
of being one of his trees.
my own father is working 
on a bottle cap machine
& my mother is knitting
a cozy for the moon. i need a man
with a knife to make me
a child again.

i jumped off the top a rollercoaster

became a flying saucer 
& observed. took a polaroid picture & watched
as it flickered moth-like 
towards the sun. 
the earth combusts several hundred times a year.
impenetrably hot, the day ached
from every corner. we'd held hands
& talked of asphalt-cooking 
our own eggs. a line to see 
god got longer & longer. you had a ticket
but i had a face for eluding judgement.
we ate french fries off our knees.
a carousel slowed to a halt 
& all the animals snapped their bridles.
have you ever ridden a man
so long you thought you might
both be livestock? a monkey played
the kazoo on a corner & dreamed 
of inheriting his owners house.
he wants to garden. he wants
to lock the front door. in the air
i tried not to think of touch down.
the rollercoaster serpented onward
without a worry, going to eat a hole
in a mountain. there i was dangling.
little ufo. nothing much to report.
soon to be shot out of the sky. 
nothing supernatural lasts 
especially long. the government has
a detector that'll ring
if too many people are experiencing
life-changing awe. fingers pointing
up at me. even the rollercoaster
glanced over his shoulder.
i don't know if i wanted this fame.
i just wanted a balloon to tie to my wrist
& call "father." i saw my car
down there, belly up like a dead frog.
i tried to think of what to do
when i landed. walk on hands & knees
& try to find a place to sleep.
the sun showed no sign
of sleeping. i broke my knees
on the fall & coiled like a snake
in the freshly mowed grass.
sang a song of tired wheels
until the rollercoaster crept back
into his den & all the rest of the people
returned to their catacombs
leaving me to wander 
like a candy wrapper.