clone

if i had a clone 
i would send her to do 
all the terrible things for me.
she would stand in long grocery lines
& she would shave her head
so i could see what i look like.
they clone all kinds of animals these days.
if my dog dies i will have her cloned
so as to stave off 
some specific fragment of grief.
a sheep stares into the eyes
of its clone. is a clone
a replica or a reconstruction?
my clone is taking a walk on the beach.
i am giving her a brief. my clone
is not transgender seeing as 
biology is expensive. 
i wanted my clone to have
all my blood memories but she knows 
very little of our body. 
they clone cows & pigs too-- 
harvest skin cells to build 
the mirror animal. somewhere 
a farm emerges of only clones.
the animals walk in unison. hooves
in the mud. now my clone is eating pasta
& she's reading a book i've never read.
i am so jealous of her
with all that whimsy. she's content
to just move like a windmill.
if there was a clone
of my clone would it still
be me? is destroying your own clone
a form of self-harm?
don't worry i'm just curious.
i do love her in the way
someone might love
a smooth rock. she is sleeping
on the couch with a throw blanket.
i am petting her hair.
there, there clone. it is alright.
you grew up inside 
a little tube. i grew up
in a backyard of bright glass.
when you wake up you will have to
go to a wedding for me
& i'll be here with 
all the sheep. 

heat

the heat swarmed in our old apartment.
each room, little toaster ovens.
i peeled off my clothes behind my door.
me: a rack of roasting ribs. 
the neighbors had the only thermometer 
so we baked at their will. 
i wondered what kind of air they craved.
did they miss july? did they 
boil water to furnish the ceiling
with clouds? were we just 
less imaginative? heat is always
artificial. dried our skin to paper.
vitamin e lotion on the kitchen counter.
i miss that place despite its clear discomforts.
am i doomed to a life of retrospective longing?
maybe that is just what it means
to be a poet. the heat made me want to 
peel off my body. the heat painted me 
star-eyed & languid. the heat 
scooped my eyes from my skull.
harvest my tongue. cooked my bones.
i opened the windows 
& let cool january swing in.
one night, before you came home,
i had the apartment to myself
& i was a ghost in the hallway.
sweat crowned my forehead. i walked
an inch above the ground. all tropical 
in my swelter. i did yoga 
with your yoga mat in the living room
& dreamed of spring 
when the church up the street 
would plant daffodils again. 
the cool air was only a ribbon.
just enough. the sound of the train
moaned, reminding me 
of geography's loud permanence
& my own transience.

watching benny cook chicken

she pries pink flesh from plastic.
two breasts. meat & muscles
once shuddering in their own quickness.
a world of chickens & all their chicken worries.
will my feet pierce the earth? will my face
come undone?
flightless creature. supermarket glow.
the timer above the stove. she is making chili
like so does on some sundays. 
our only pan. a drip of clear golden 
vegetable oil. i am doing absolutely nothing
in my room but smelling each step.
all sundays are hopeless like this--
like the horizon is only sinew.
pan's heat rising. benny chops onions
& peppers on the wooden cutting board.
each knife-fall gives a thwack.
we are always cutting down trees.
outside the city is quiet & warm.
soon it will be february & then march
& then more forever after that.
for now it is only january. 
meat turns pale against heat.
turns the breast over. a last 
little flight. somewhere chicken 
gossip about fate. benny & i
we talk about poets & wanting 
to write our names somewhere tangible.
i say the wall of the subway car
& she says a paper plate.
of course we are not speaking aloud.
her body moves. she is consulting chicken.
meat loosening its grip.
the last vestiges of a body & an animal. 
were we animals once too?
she is covering the pot of ingredients 
& humming to herself. 

boyhood poem 

after karate i took cold showers
& the tributaries wreathed my body 
in fresh cool halos.
naked skin. fourteen.
hair flowering
across my thighs. it takes so long
to become human. all the days 
of rummaging in cabinets 
for your father's dull razors.
all the afternoons spent 
in the backyard 
gazing at yellow jackets
as they waltz in pairs. in april
everything was sick with love.
i had a crush on a boy 
at karate with 
thick eyebrows & short short hair.
in the shower, i thought about
his skin 
& wondered if he really
took cold showers like he said
or if, like me, he reached
for the knob 
& relieved his body
with a burst of fresh hot water.
closing my eyes in the downpour
i wished real rain 
was this warm
leaving parking lots vibrating
with steam. i took 
a horse-stance
to inspect my leg muscles.
this is what i look like
underneath the uniform as i posed.
everyone's muscles
in our class concealed
by our black uniforms.
did they think about their bodies
like i considered mine? peering into
every little corner? 
were my fears ordinary? my desire
to touch that boy's skin in the rain?
to feel to slick & soft?
i bow & the water 
spills down my back.
the bath tub is gunky 
with soap grime. smells like
left over bubble bath
& head & shoulders shampoo. 
i face the shower one more time
before i wrap myself 
in a scratchy beach towel
dangling inches away 
from the bath. water coats 
my skin. a twinge of cold
before i go get dressed.

improv 

under pressure, i am always a mother
or a daughter. get down on my knees 
& celebrate a birthday. then again
isn't everyone either a mother
or a daughter most days. once
i was a lost little girl. she crawled
on all fours. hard wooden stage 
beneath her knees. the scene
always ends too soon. before there's real
resolution. are humans prone to story?
or is it part of the training?
cut & next scene. positions.
give us a word of inspiration:
secret, powerful, apple, plague, ice.
a mother scolding her daughter 
for the kind of boys she dates. a mother
baking a pie without turning on the oven.
the mundane is fantastic. i was sixteen--
seventeen when i did improv.
i knew nothing about sailing 
but there i'd be on the deck
of a ship. they say you're not 
supposed to plan the scene 
before you get onto stage
but i always did. i planned:
little girl with a dead goldfish. 
i planned: funeral parlor &
flea market & taxidermy depot.
always one scene ahead. tomorrow
i will be stranded on a desert island
& then an ice cream parlor & then
a vestibule. a theater
rising around me like a shroud.
tall ceiling. light dwindling.
all the improv kids sitting 
on the front steps of school
waiting for our rides. all these
headlights in the dark. 
our shadows pulled every which way.

the cobbler's worries

he's making shoes for the future
when none of us have eyes or feet
& we house what's left in 
little boats. main street floods
with hope. the kind of hope
that dismantles everything.
my brother wears his shoes
until he reaches the dirt.
you can fill a shoe with soil
& use it to plant a flower:
pansy, poppy, lilac. 
it won't be spring for a long time
at least another several years.
will someone come fit my 
for a nice pair of dress shoes?
the cobbler makes his own shoes
which is another way of saying 
some of us try to build
our own coffins. i want a headstone
that reads, "he was always afraid of this."
all my shoes are broken
but he is no where to be found.
planning for a greater mystery 
than myself as we all must do
if we are going to find meaning
by tuesday. no nothing is happening
on tuesday that's the point.
i wish it would never rain. i just can't
take that melancholy anymore.
it's too cold. i want to live somewhere
all the shoes are open. little patios.
my bare feet are microcosms of disaster.
even a mountain could be hiding
his own secret pair of shoes.
a mother's heels are to be played with.
a mirror is to be shatter
with a stray clog. why isn't anyone else here?
where did they go, taking all their feet
with them? instead i am alive holding
just this candle & a notebook
of all the shapes of the moon.
i am so scared of what's attached
to my ankles. somewhere the cobbler weeps
laying on his back as he floats
farther & farther towards the sun.
we have no need for him anymore
what with all the bones. 
he was a good man. he just wanted
to help us.  

bubble bath 

someone told me i should try to relax.
a massage therapist touched my back
& asked if i was made of stone.
i am in fact, but so is everyone.
my mother was a shard of amethyst 
& my father was & was was was.
i should self-care more often so this  
should be a start. a soup bowl
of bubbles. i'm going to eat 
lavender one little grain at a time.
i'm going to teach my blood to float away.
have you ever clipped your finger nails
in the dead of night? it feels like
making a sacrifice. i would make
any sacrifice possible if my body
would treat me like even just as a tenant.
instead, it fights me. 
all the door knobs in the world
are not enough. i collect them
in a side closet. salt jars.
three metal spoons. i miss everything
but especially the presence 
of shoulders. nudge me. how should i prepare
for the winter? more bubble baths.
more lotion. swaddle myself in lotion
& wait to reveal my whole new skin
glimmering & pink. what i really need
is a bassinette to fill with empty glass bottles.
here is where i'll be a good infant.
love me, me this helpless bird. 
i flit from window to window:
a new born ghost. no foot prints.
no limbs-- just a fearful darting.
a minnow thrives in each bubble.
sweet honey. sweet floral clean.
washing my feet in a half-inch of water.
i don't ever scrub my knees. 
is there anyone who'd like to keep vigil
over me. wake me up every 13 minutes
& ask if i am living? no, that's okay.
this is what alarms are for.
most days everything in my life
is an alarm. even people i love.
will you alarm me awake soon?
the bubbles form doorways
i walk through. the cellar is stuffed
with sponges. will you
take care of me tonight?
just one night. 

the porch was a dream of family

where a photo dissolved
into feet. my brother & i are astronauts
in our own rights. the surface
of our father's face: a swing set
or a moon. we are naked 
on the porch & it's pouring outside.
july with all july's yellow silk scarves.
rain smacking the earth 
like a cantaloupe. everything is 
getting round in the heat. 
i am most nostalgic for moments
where i was a rubber ball
& the pavement gnawed on the ankles
of a grey sky. here comes 
a grandfather throat to slide down.
who is going to roll the stove
down the hill where the creek
is waiting for bread?
my brother & i with amphibial hands 
open as if to catch a fish
in the down pour. open as if
a cloud might come down
to perch on our wrists.
fresh curtains of rain across
our lips. rain so ripe it purples 
in the air. porch all around like
a dictionary-- spewing potential words
into our bones. i try to shout to him
through the deluge but all the speach
slips to water. we are talking water
on the porch. a screen door
hinges in us but never 
opens. metal & yawn. 
we could have walked out into
that thrall & become 
two green leaves-- shaking
& pearled with rain. instead
we stayed human somehow
& the porch ached with our teeth.
exchanging bones i was a boy
& i was a boy & he was a jupiter marble.
i took a photograph with my eyes
& it printed out my mouth.
salted blur. our mother's finger print.
blushing pink porch.
pink rain. pink summer.
pink boyhood. a frog
skipping towards heaven. 
porch folding chair: 
newly perpendicular. 

nocturne 

i tether myself 
to the bedpost with a shoelace
so i don't ceiling float again.
that's what night does to me--
tries to pry me away 
from rock & dirt.
the moon's gravity is getting
stronger everyday. soon it will
out weigh the sun's. i want to sleep
until my body is a pool
or fabric. cut me into
a robe. i'm measuring
everything by the acre from now on.
here comes an acre 
of night--swooping down
from its obelisk on the mountain.
i have grown tired of metaphors 
only living in poems. give me something
semi-permanent for once. 
i am a golden orchid. i am
a muddied clarinet. i am a dead bird
rising towards the sky graveyard
where all flying things 
rest between this world 
& the possible other. heaven
is covered in weeds.
really, the only thing i want
is to feet tangible. no 
not true. i want to dissolve
into the sweetness of bows 
& birthday table clothes. i text
the bears in the woods to meet me
later by the train station. 
i leave a message
on the answering machine of 
a honeysuckle bush asking if 
he intends to bloom again 
before the true frost. 
a cloud of gnats slip into my house
& write me messages with their bodies.
today they just spell
"late." do they mean it is
late at night? or do they mean
i am late for something? i guess
that could be the same thing.
late to my own quiet dark.
really, above all else
i am missing you. i am missing
what it meant to have my night
made translucent by another.
i feel myself rising--
lifting like a shopping bag
of grapes-- but the tether holds.
call me your brief balloon.
someday, will you eat my heart? 
the bears text back
but my phone is on the floor 
too far away to reach.
the honeysuckle is already gone.

these things will be okay

as long as i light a candle in 
each window. as long as i pray
to the right tree. as long 
as you wake me up at 4am 
to stand on the porch & watch
as the stray cats march towards
a bright next life. sleep is a new 
luxury. there is so much to miss.
once, i slept & missed 
all the fireflies of july.
another time i slept & didn't eat
for three years. right now
i'm held together by a string
of promises i'm keeping to 
the gnats in the kitchen. 
a harmonica spins in my soul 
like a haggard breath.
the gnats lick the sticky syrup 
from the surfaces of nectarines
& uneaten bananas. i make deals 
with minor demons to see their faces
in the bathroom mirror.
living alone is like living
inside your own voice. you would think
i'd start to sing but i use it less
& less. what is the point
of sound? my dogs started a book club
without me. i open the windows
to flush the place with cold. 
here is the winter talking.
soon i'll be able to use myself
as firewood. kindling hair.
fingernails curling towards
the moon. who knows if any of this works.
i set pumpkins by the door
& they turn into infants--wailing
until i pull them inside & feed them
mashed sweet potato. i hum to myself
a low tune with no words
& it summons a herd of deer.
i am beautiful in some corner
of this life & somewhere out there
you are a brilliant aching.
i dip a needle into your thumb
to sew mine to yours. 
thin little red string. 
don't wake up yet.