my brothers & i eat lemons.

each fruit paired into quarters.
they roll through the front door
as if it's not there. a barrier 
is often just an outline. we take turns 
spitting the slimy slim seeds
into the carpet. my brothers are 
loud & multiplying. i have a brother
for every day of the week. i have 
a brother for each one of my fingers.
they are smaller than you might think.
a few are small than a lemon.
our house is green which was their decision.
i voted for soft peach. we painted
with our hands, slapping paint
until it was done. a brother
is a kind of father. the lemon tree
is the rest of the world. fills the windows
with leaves & winking. the tree flirts with us.
wants to take a lover 
into its branches. wants us to come outside
& see the bloom of 
its small white flowers.
never trust citrus. our mouths pucker
like sinched waists. we wear
over-sized t-shirts. mine has 
an asterisk in the middle. 
t-shirts also often grow on trees.
my brothers press their faces
to the glass windows & make smudges.
i order them to clean their mess. i run
a spotless house. i am not 
a father. i am not a mother. 
there are parents in a portrait 
on an end table somewhere or maybe 
my mother is the lemon tree. the tree that 
swells larger each day. the moon 
is a pale lemon. 
in the morning when we all squeeze lemons
over top of the bathtub 
till our hands sting with the juice.
take turns bathing 
in the sharp liquid. feel electrical
like a wire made of teeth.
i power a light bulb by
placing it in my mouth. my brothers splash 
& play. the rubber ducks melt.
we eat more quarter-lemons.
our tongues dissolve into bones.
mouths full of bone. organs turned 
to marbles. fragile as we are
we insist on play fighting 
in the living room. if we did have 
a mother she would stop us.
we smash tables & chairs. lemon juice pours
out our wounds. i taste myself
from a gash on my forearm. 
there are more brothers now
& even more brothers to come.
silently, i wonder if the house 
will hold them. they put each other
in head locks. they take lemon breaks.
the tree hums & rolls more fruit towards us
in through the chimney & the passage ways.

several chairs in the statue garden at the brookly museum 

my family sitting in all different directions.
brothers are like compass needles
or maybe just like regular needles.
i love them. i miss them even when
they are right in front of me. 
we are testing out the chairs. 
it is hot july & the sky is full
of finger prints. they are visiting.
they drove across states to see me:
all of them sitting in a whirling metal box. 
i have two chairs 
waiting in my bare apartment. 
they are plastic & in need of revision.
i often sit on the floor instead & pretend 
i am perched elsewhere. every apartment
has felt like my first. i keep wondering
when i will feel like i live somewhere
separate from them. i picture 
the chairs in their house: 
the red twisty living room ones
& the four stools at breakfast counter. how could anyone
sense a new chair? 
the birds in the garden sit to look at us.
one chair is round & low. another chair
is woven almost like a basket. the basket
makes me feel like a bushel of peaches. my mother sits back 
on a reclining square chair.
the statues in the garden stand up tall.
they can't sit like we can. they glare
with jealousy. my father does not sit;
he paces which is typical for him. he inspects
the chairs passing judgements on them from above.
this one is too round this one is too squat
this one would never work.
each of us are a kind of chair.
i have sat on both my mother & my father's laps
& my brothers have sat on mine.
we could all be standing on a huge chair
at any given moment. i picture
rows of folding chairs covering a field
then in lines up & down the streets.
so many chairs to collapse. my family sits
scattered. we don't talk about anything
but chairs. i like this one. not this one. 
a breeze cuts through 
our sweat. an ice cream truck sings far away
of its own sweet cold chair. 
our feet are thankful for the chairs.
soon we will go back to my apartment 
& sit on the floor together.
i will apologize over & over
for my lack of chairs. they will say
it's alright don't worry don't worry.
without chairs we looked like we were hiding.
a circle on the hard wood floor. 
they leave soon after. i lay down
& stair up at the ceiling,
imagining rows of chairs there too.

without you i resort to strange acts of introversion 

i started renting out
all the small spaces in our apartment. 
you were away for the weekend
at your dad's big house in the woods.
there were so many gaps in myself.
i always think i need more company
than i do. the word "introvert"
means to turn within, 
to bend inward. i bend 
like curling vines. i climb
the walls with my barefeet.
i use Air BNB. i say this is
a lovely place to vacation. 
the space beneath my pillow.
the jar of tacs. the crook of my elbow.
the bell of a daffodil. the slit
beneath the fridge. i could fit
in any of these. i charge no rent.
i tell them to bring their laughter
in jars. these people were the size
of my thumb. i asked them to teach me
how to be so small. their voices 
sounded like needles dancing with each other.
i pretended to understand what they said.
i didn't want to be a rude host.
host & ghost sound close together.
i kept wandering what you would think 
of the scene if you came home early:
me croaching on the floor as i served
pen caps of tea to these guests
before they made their ways to all their 
creases & nooks for the night.
all their dreaming kept me awake.
i saw tiny movies of their minds
project on the ceiling from their eyes.
these were different humans.
i wanted to tell you about all of this
but i didn't want you to think
i was careless, filling out house
with strangers. did you know 
some Air BNB hosts keep hidden cameras.
i am not that kind of host
though i can understand the urge
to peel open a private life.
sometimes i look for cameras
& i believe our landlord is watching us
on her living room TV. she likes you best.
when you come home she will 
see you arriving before i do.
all the guests have left
& here i am. i touch the places
they slept to remember their warmth.
i remind myseld our landlord 
might just be lonely-- might enjoy 
our sofa kisses & lamplight sadnesses.
she might wish we argued 
more dramatically. will you forgive me
for all the guests? they were beautiful.
i trusted them. you would
have liked them. the house is
bending inward
like a vine.

we play charades

you are making a chopping-down-a-tree gesture
& across town a tree falls over.
we here it whistle & thud
like a body dropping from a building.
there is an axe hovering in the room.
all games involve some fragment 
of truth. our bodies come into focus.
we are playing because the house
is empty & we need to pass the time
before the moon takes the place
of the sun. i draw the card
"rocking a baby to sleep" &
i make a basinette with my arms.
close my eyes & imagine holding
this creature; soft & fragile.
the baby is rocked in a house
blocks away. he floats
above a blue crib. in ten years or so 
he will remember this & come to
believe in ghosts. how can i prove
i am not already a ghost?
i ask you to kiss me all over
to trace the outline of my figure.
you cast a fishing line, moving you left hand
as if to real the fish in.
i think of the stream i used to live by
& my father making that motion
as he tried again & again
to catch a fish. we never caught one
but on our walks we would see them
mocking us from just below the surface.
it is orange in the clouds. a trout
wriggles on a river bank because
of us. i want to stop the game 
but you say we have to continue.
we have almost unfilled the day 
of our bones. i push an elevator button
& the machine goes up without us.
you pull tape out of the dispenser.
i catch butterflies. you fly a kite.
motion is maybe a written language.
i note your elbows & your knees. i watch
the angles of your hips & shoulders 
to notice when they are parallel.
we stir a pot of clam chowder 
up the street. we shoot a bird dead
& pray it wasn't a dove. i beg you
to stop & you hold your hands up
to the overhead light. they glow a faint red
in the shine of the bulb.
i do the same. it's as if we're
seeing our souls togeteher.
i tell you we have done enough 
& you agree. you plead to do
just one more. the house is dark.
the power goes out or maybe 
we just wanted all shadow. 
it is rare that your wants 
manifest before you. i am scared
of my own gestures. i ask you 
if you think i'm a ghost & you don't 
answer me. the final action:
you skip a stone across the water.
we watch out the window 
as if we might witness the stone
rising & following orders.
we do not. the stone sinks 
quietly into the water.
we go to sleep without touching again.
i want to reach over & brush against
your palm, but i don't.
i picture the tree falling
& the axe still alive somewhere. 

hatching

i take a silent Uber ride
into a blue chlorine lake where 
the water is a sickly blue & 
there are lost men playing golf
on the edge. i once found a fleck of gold
the size of a finger nail & i begged
my dad to sell it but he promised
it wasn't worth anything. 
where is that gold now? i check my teeth 
for diamonds. i check the bottom 
of the lake for girls. this is where
so many dresses go to collect moss.
i lift stones to reveal families 
of whirling bugs drunk on chemicals. 
across the surface
all kinds of spheres are floating:
golf balls & basket balls 
& soccer balls. any circle can hatch
into a creature if you give it enough 
attention. i watch as they open 
to reveal dragonflies as large as 
oven mitts. i wonder how big the animal
inside the moon is & if i alone
could bring it forth into 
the watery night. i count my fingers.
four on each hand. i am dripping blue.
my eyes turn into cue balls.
i am ready to be struck. i need to 
remind myself to tip the Uber--
tip him well. i appreciate a driver
who does not try to pry me open.
i roll down a window. there is 
no car just a headlight's fading stare.
how dare you wonder
where are we? location is 
the most important thing to pin down.
i have tacks in my pocket 
which i press into the grass.
the golf men are glowing. 
if i had any gold-- any gold at all
i would use it to arrive
on my dad's porch. i would bring
a mouth full of lake 
& spit it all out at his feet 
until our yard stung.
a great bowl of pear juice.
i bleed nectar lately. i have 
a small cut on my index finger
i sip quietly from. there was 
a piece of gold once. 
i hold my breath at the bottom 
of the lake hoping to see it grin
like a lost tooth. 

toy stories

the electric dogs bark three times
& stretch their technology
at a mall kiosk. there is so much
that can be bought. the dogs repeat
the same movements over & over.
they bump into each other. 
they shuffle. their wires are fatter 
than veins. their wires
are full of a new kind of blood. 
buzzing with language. 
life begins in a register full of dimes. 
i should buy them all. 
i have too much empathy
for toys or maybe 
everyone else just doesn't have enough. 
i've always paid attention to them. 
as a child i sometimes turned into a doll. i lay still
& waited for someone to love me. 
i pulled the stuffing from the chests of stuffed animals 
to feed myself. wads of sinewy cloud
stuck in my throat. what would you do 
in order to be soft? 
i imagine the dogs loose in the mall. 
how far could they stumble? what might they become?
a flock of pigeons? a swarm of horse flies? 
a pack of real dogs? though, probably not dogs.
our transformations are seldom that clear. 
i myself have gone from girl to doll to boy
to crow to surveillance camera to boy.
batteries are always required.
i tuck them under my tongue. the robotic dogs
are jostling together. a good herd. their voices
make a unison. a tinny barking. 
i tell them they have to try harder
if they want to have bone. if they want
to be bought by passing children. children are
harder to please than it seems. i was never
a pleased child. to love a toy 
is to love a piece
of yourself. here is all my sadness
with two black eyes sewn into her face.
i have to resist sewing my wounds shut.
i am a human & these are not dogs.
these dogs are products designed
only for motion. though, i am also often
designed only for motion.
what if i am one of them? 
i bark with them in the small recorded voice
we all have waiting for us. i move
just like them. we collide bodies.
we dance for passing children
with their mouths full of quarters.

i built a cabin in my mouth
 
& made each tooth a forest.
my throat: a well. 
the roof of my mouth:
a new pinkish sky. 
here is where i want you to vanish to.
you will live alone yes 
& somedays you will wonder 
if there are any animals in the trees
or if you are the only remaining creature.
i want you to be lonely.
i want you to miss me. i am a selfish house. 
what can vanish mean in a world
where every stream flows into grocery store?
aluminum cans sprout from the brush.
the moss on the trees thickens. 
i've always told you
i need to build a cabin in the woods
& escape from everything
but i wouldn't survive you see.
this structure is for you.
when you peer out the windows 
you will see the world as i witnessed it.
the violet hue. the premonitions. the ghosts.
the trembling of every staircase.
you will have a woods to toss yourself to.
i would be terrible at this; 
snapping the arms off trees for fire
& fishing in the empty lake
hoping to catch a father or a fish.
i trust very few symbols
but i do believe that god is a fish.
i have worn a baited hook around my neck
& tried to drown. but here i am alive
& ushering you inside a new home.
the pros are you will know i'm always near.
the cons are i will be so vast
you might never find my lips.
let me tell you though 
when twilight comes you can follow
the pink in the sky. keept reaching
till you brush against something 
soft & damp. this will be the edge.

amphibial love poem 

i have fallen in love with many frogs
by which i mean some nights 
i become amphibian. this is not 
on purpose but rather a result
of all my yearning. my skin breathes
sidewalk & dark. my eyes turn round & glossy
like cue balls. i wet my skin 
in the sink & think of salamanders:
their long bodies
& their fears. they press their skeletons
to the sides of rocks & cars while
frogs are out here in a big city
trying to make something of themselves.
my father was also an amphibian
& he clung to the sides of trees
all my life. i mistake leaves for him.
he has convinced himself he can 
reach the night sky by force of will.
he dries out near in the branches 
& turns back into a man each time.
i am ashamed of him but aren't we all
ashamed of our fathers? enough of that
let me tell you about love.
in my version of the frog prince
two frogs kiss both with the hope
of becoming human. he is 
a red-eye tree frog & i am green & nothing.
a species says it all. a bullfrog
chews on a bird & offers to crush me.
i suck the soul out of a fly.
a human blind folds me & i tell him
my safe word is "frog" he extents 
his throat. he does not listen.
it is march & soon all the stagnant waters 
will be full of frog eggs.
i remember being a tadpol. everyone pointed
& laughed at my half-legs. 
i want to go back to those blissful
first days where i thought i might be
just a fishl. as long as there's land involved
a creature can't really be happy.
i find a sweet toad & ask him
if he knows when the next train is.
he does not so we pass the time
telling stories of our past forms.
he knows he was meant to be an olive tree
& i second guess if i was meant 
to be human or to be a crow.
if i could fly i would scoop my father up
& show him the night sky
is not what he thinks it is. 
a train comes & goes. & another
& another. we part ways 
when i finally board the train.
in the distance i watch him
return to the figure 
of a skinny man with scruffy hair.
he waives & does not see me
as i also transform 
back into a short man
with skin stilling inhaling
damp wriggling night.

a loose portrait of pigs

all pigs are made of straw
or was that horses? i take all
my precious jems & dip them in 
a thick batter to be fried.
we talk about what oil is best
for frying. the pigs have 
blown away entirely. the wind 
is a series of ghost animals
their parts mixed togehter. duck bill
dog leg. fish tail trutle brain.
i believe it's vegetabe oil
& i picture a leek crying its 
loose golden tears into a pan.
there were never any pigs. i want
an onion ring to wear around
my largest finger. the onions
are petaling apart. i have only
two items passed down to me 
from a grandmother. here is a gold necklace
& here is a pair of clip on earrings.
i make them crispy & fresh.
i once had a boyfriend who liked to
fry flowers. brought the sunflower oil
to a sparkling heat before 
dropping them in. i am not thankful enough
to so many people but especially the ones
who collect lard from the bottom of pans.
my mom does this & the fat turns white
in the little mason jar 
on the back of the stove. 
i miss the pigs. i will lure them back
with these fried trinkets.
all pigs are full of diamonds.
i leaned against a wire pig pen 
as the creatures laid against each other.
they slept like great vats of oil.
their tongues were thick as wrists.
what oil did my grandmothers use
on their wedding rings? an onion
is a kind of sharp prayer
turned translucent in heat.
my skin is all onion as are my bones.
i remove the slithering onion
from its batter case.
i hold the onion loop up to the light
& peer right through it
to see all the animals standing steady 
trying to last through 
the next solid gust of wind.

sea glass genesis 

i have been trying to make my own seaglass
like the pieces we found on the shore in maine.
i fill the bath rub with table salt & then water.
i tend to believe anything found
can be made. this is not so much out of arrogance
as it is out of fear. what if the ocean 
flips over? what if the last sliver
of sea glass is harvested? 
i often press seeds into my palms 
& make a fist until a sapling sprouts 
between my knuckles. natures is 
buzzing inside me. i wish we lived
in a time of ship wrecks. i would do well
culling the debris & standing on the rocky shore line
till my eyes blared like a lighthouse--
two white bright holes towards the ocean.
do you remember the sound 
the sea glass made as the pieces 
clinked in our pockets? you wore plaid shorts
& i wore the pink flower dress. 
i am so far from an ocean like that.
sometimes i think i am the only one
who truly wants to run away anymore.
i do not own anything. not a house
or a car or even a microwave 
at least not anymore. i don't know
what i'll do with the glass once it is frosted 
& worn with salt. once the edges 
are no longer sharp & the surface
is the texture of a sugar cube.
i used to make necklaces with the pieces
we plucked together but they are all 
knotted in an unreachable cardboard box. 
i break a bottle in the alley 
& carry the fragments with care 
towards my own little ocean. 
the tub starts to swells with waves.
i can't resist dipping my feet in.
you helped me take off my socks & shoes.
you set them on a huge flat rock
as i walked on top of sea glass.
cool navy water. you took a picture of me
with your iphone. the picture turned to sea glass
a long time ago. you turned to sea glass
a long time ago & now you lie face-up
in the box of necklaces i made.
i invented an attic room just for you.
the sea glass is ready. i cup 
three shards in my hands. all the mirrors 
in the bathroom frost over too
& then my eyes. it's contagious.
i should have been more careful. 
an ocean will invite another ocean.
a frosted surface will always want company.
i imagine your eyes frosting over too
wherever they linger in the water.