everyday portal 

under the bridge i imagine
the pigeons as gateway guardians.
they roost in patches across the ceiling
like a living scab. a feather or two falls.
i want to catch them. who doesn't want
to be covered in feathers?
i want to be a hybrid bird 
of all different plumage shapes & hues. 
flight would not be necessary. 
the pigeons chatter about me & my pink palms. 
they wonder if i could ever 
perch where they do or if in a past life
they walked where i walked.
passing under the structure
i pretend i will be in a completely new life
when i come out on the other side.
i pass across a membrane. this reminds me 
of the vined arches we'd find in the woods
around the creek where i grew up. we called them 
fairy portals & we chased each other
through them. did i undergo some sort 
of change as i crossed thresholds again & again? 
an alternation i never noticed?
i think of our bodies: great streches 
of soft skin. tongue pined behind teeth.
stuffed animal children. i sewed myself up 
each & everyday. pulled clouds from their nests
to fill my body. now i am hoping for 
a drastic shift. i would like to be 
one of the yellow snails who meander all day
across the bridge's path. or, maybe 
i could be a handful of cherry blossom petals
to be scattered. that's too romantic of me
but imagine the petals pink tinged with red.
above, a train streaks across the bridge filling
the world with noise. a hollow hum.
this is how i imagine the inside of bones sounding.
i take this as a sign i should cross. 
lives rocketing above my skeleton.
all their bones moving so rapidly i cannot see them.
we stopped playing in the woods 
though i can't remember when or why
only that i am me now & the woods are far away.
the bridge was not a portal or at least so it seems.
i am not a bird now. the other side 
flickers behind me. 
the sun is tangerining towards twilight. 
or maybe i am a bird & don't notice
or maybe i was always a bird.
we were all birds in the woods.
i can't tell if i miss being young
or miss my body. it is possible
i never had the thing i miss.
there aren't enough ways 
to alter your flesh. there aren't enough 
portals or woods. a pigeon plucks 
a chip bag from the brush 
& carries it away.

sleeping above a fire

last night we found the fireplace
we had always suspected was hidden
in our apartment. the smell of churning fire
crouched just behind our teeth
& then there it was under your bed
with all the stone & the row of pokers.
we could not find where all the smoke was going.
you opened my mouth & i opened yours
to check for clouds. your teeth were
so grey from stress i told you
we should sleep more. 
when i first met you, we slept so much.
our feet were perpendicular objects
& you folded each pillow in half.
the morning is a lot like
a trough of hay. the goats 
crowd the sun. i was born in a town
the size of a dime & it could hold
so many cows. the cows come
to warm themselves by our fireplace.
it is astounding how quickly a memory
can become material. just the other day 
i remembered a lover from before i met you
& then there he was smelling
like a fallen tree. he asked me
to use him for firewood.
he came apart easily, revealing 
his soft wood. an evergreen.
the snap of branches. there is 
enough to last us the last few years
of winters. the winters are flocking
this year, one after the next.
their feathers sometimes fall on the sidewalk
& i collect them. you still don't believe me
that they are great huge swans
but one day we will see them together
& i promise not to rub it in.
i will just say, here they are.
our hands are cooking by the fireplace.
two medallions of meat. i count your fingers
& you count mine. we can't get 
an even number though we are sure
we both have five fingers on each hand.
a finger falls off & turns into 
a knot in a tree. you touch me 
& leave branding marks. call me your
cattle & when i run away these marks
will help you find me. fantasy is morphing
right before our eyes in a world with
such certain cold. will you miss me
when am all kindling? it is a silly question
of course you will but at least
you will be warm. the winters 
are getting into formation.
have you ever tried to burn a feather?
each little tuft twists 
& blackens until only 
the stem remains.

in defense of myself & other liars

at all times i keep a pair of fingers 
crossed behind my back. a kind of precaution.
it's not that i try to lie
sometimes they just spill out of me.
i remember when was little 
i would lie about the school day,
telling mom there was a wondeful huge custome trunk
in the middle of the classroom. i told her
i dug in that trunk & found a dinosaur costume
to wear for the rest of the day.
really, i spent all day watching 
other children's hands. 
they hurled red rubber balls at the maple tree
& unfurled fruit by the foot from their lunches.
hands are so much like little insects. hands are
hard to pin down. i hated my own hands.
it is easy to blame the body 
but you have to believe me when i tell you
my fingers sometimes crossed themselves.
i would transported myself 
to a new body with thinner
& more dexterous hands.
i was a piano player in my heart, a key board 
summed right there from the mulch. 
the other children's voices leaked
through & turned to cardinals 
in my palms. they pecked until
my skin was raw. the thing about crossing fingers 
is once you start, they grow together. 
they whirl & knot like roots. 
there is no going back now.
i invent so much of myself 
in a dimension i show no one.
there, my hands will do 
whatever i want them to.
they know how to tie any knot & play
any insturment. they program computers 
& fix broken teeth. they sign 
legislation to protect me. they unwind 
days that fissured me. 
tuck hair behind ears. 
crease slice of paper. is a hand a hand
if it performs your desires?
is a lie a lie if it unfolds 
in your mouth? if it comes out 
bright pink & soft?

approaching summer  

the ice cream sandwich peeled open
to reveal the only staircase left.
a pathway towards a blinking nebula.
these are strange times dear reader
in which all the light bulbs 
are subject to tulip any day now.
i am asking that you not judge me
for how many Grindr dates i've stood up
in the last four years. 
i love the fantasy. 
let's live without materials.
i told one boy he was
the most beautiful man i'd ever spoken to
& then i made a date with him
inside a fig. he might be still waiting there. 
in a world without vanilla
how will we explain to our children 
what the whites of the eyes taste like?
on the sidewalk there are several options
for where to lay down.
i make beds out of any give crease.
i wonder if i have soulmates 
still waiting for me outside of museums.
probably not though because 
the soul is an invention best used
in poems & prayers. all my prayers 
are orange & frozen. i bought 
dreamsicles last year in case
they got discontinued. i couldn't imagine
living with myself knowing
i could never taste that again.
everything is getting discontinued these days.
god told the angles to go find something 
to do with themselves & now they're all on Grindr.
someone told me last week that spring
is always coming. i firmly disagree.
summer is always coming & 
the staircase is always getting wider
& crispier & fresher. the staircase is hot. 
the staircase is out of our league.
my legs are not suited for climbing
but are at least great for folding. 
no one likes short men but i'm not bitter,
really i am lucky. when they sky dislodges 
it will strike me last. one boy was too kind 
when i didn't show up. he said
any time. let's try anytime again.
desperation is something to be distrusted.
i don't want to need someone like that.
what is the relationship between love
& need? these days are full of sweating
& wishing my partner had eighteen clones of herself.  
i bet he tasted like citrus.
lemon all over his mouth. i haven't eaten 
a fruit in too long. a real fruit not like
a peach or a plum. something like a deep red apple. 
the next date i'm making is inside 
a cantaloupe. i know i won't go 
but i have to at least try.
i roll the week up into a scarf
& toss it just out of reach.
there are so many articles of clothing
just on my block. picture me
dressed in them all. the heat of clothe
almost like the impending july afternoons. 

clearing 

i am thirteen & standing 
in a rainforest clearing. i am made
of leaves & mist. a breezes 
makes a shutter in me.
i am aware of where the fat collects
on my body. the thighs. the stomach.
my round face. 
so much about imagination
has to do with wanting.
how far have your desires taken you?
i take off my jeans & t-shirt. 
there are animals just out of reach.
i have always favored a good story 
over the truth. nearby the river
knew my name & the piranhas
clicked their teeth like castinettes.
a percussive song. a thermometer 
raised its red tower. what i wanted 
was a great opening-- like all the trees
encircling me simply turning to wind.
like widening my mouth the size 
of a butterfly net or inhaling the sun. 
above the clouds paint themselves
with brushes dug from humid dirt.
the throats of tree frogs pulse pocketwatch.
a window emerges & outside
there is a diarama town 
with pickup trucks & horse and buggies.
i pluck leaves to cover the window.
i lick my thumb to smooth out
the edges. a telephone wire
swims through the scene & i tell myself
this vine is black & thin.
the clearing belongs entirely to me.
the trees crawl with their roots
backing up farther & farther away 
until the clearing is as wide as my world.
trees are a wistful memory.
i pace & my ear buds burst into flames.
a song is playing from underneath my skin.
one day it will come out my mouth
in the form of shiny beetles.
it is terrible to be thirteen. imagination 
starts to flicker. the rules are
a lock blinking forward. in the next year
who will convince the sidewalk
to be extrodinary? a blade of grass
intrudes. i pluck the grass
& trace it against my skin.
my legs are shaved in patches.
the window is wide open. 
my own mouth. a zipper. a clip.
the animals retreat into a previous heart.
the clearing dazzles like a button. 
i am thirteen & made of skin & teeth. 

how to be a living animal 

i try to put the city to sleep 
one light bulb at a time. 
a lullaby in my teeth.
a want a baby so i can tuck him
in a basinette & send him down the hudson river
to be discovered by people more beautiful than me. 
the ocean is farther away than it's ever been.
the sky is not a ceiling 
but a body of water waiting to sigh.
have you ever seen a building 
crouch down on its knees? all the grime 
& all the smudges comes together 
to make one big shadow behind me
stretching longer than a train car.
when i say sleep i mean the kind
without dreams. we don't need a skyscraper
dreaming all over the place. 
what i want to witness is a palm-sized moment.
one second where the moon is 
the loudest object in the city.
all the trees discuss asphalt & cement.
they coil into knots of hair. i do not belong
in this terrain. i was always destined 
for a thicker membrane. all the humans
are trying to wash their hands.
a public bathroom full of geese.
i use my butterfly net to capture 
taxi cabs. all their yellow dulls to wax.
what does sleep mean to you?
i cannot sleep unless 
everyone else is asleep. i check 
for light under my housemates doors.
i paint a watch on the back of my wrist
& it's always going to be midnight.
noon might come without any light tomorrow.
the city might be a cradle of stoplights. 
as a child, i prayed each night
like the world might end any moment.
i was taught god was fickle.
a wavering trolley coming into focus.
i imagined the world ending
in a very organized fashion.
god would come over the intercom 
& say we had a good run but it's over.
i am the cause of many endings.
the city deserves a sliver of stillness.
everything asleep
i lay down on a bench designed
to prevent people from sleeping on it.
coiled like a feral cat.
i press a coin in my palm,
feeling all its ridges.
it is a wheel i could build a car around.
i will soon escape 
to a quieter place still
or maybe use the coin as 
a porthole of a submarine.
silence floods over us all.
a street is easily undone. vacant vein.
there is no one else 
in the whole city. only me & 
piles of ghosts. i wander around 
looking for another lightbulb 
to unskrew. i want to stick it to my tongue
& see if it glows. i don't find any.
they all shown as they floated
out to sea to learn how to be organisms.
i still need to learn
how to be an organism.

i shake jars until they grow tornados

a wheeling of all availible matter.
invisible disaster necklace.
i'm not sure what i will do
when the trees are ripped from the dirt
& they dance around in the sky 
like dead gods. i often struggle with
who to pray to. for awhile, like all poets,
i tried to pray to the moon
but he turned over like a coin.
i filled my pockets with his absence
& i walked all over town on full moons
in the hopes he would see my teething glinting. 
lately, i just light candles & hope
someone powerful is watching. often, 
i wonder if anyone is taking notes on us.
we kissed only three times last night (i'm sorry)
i was scared of blurring away.
outside, a new type of weather
is considering what to do with a dead tree.
will it tear limb from limb or
set the structure a flame? 
the new kind of weather is really just
a team of men with all their tools.
there are two screw drivers
in the kitchen. the door knob keeps 
wriggling itself loose. each time i tighten it
if believe even more that there are
goblins tampering with the house.
dear candle, i hope you burn thoroughly 
all the way down into the carpet.
what will we do with all these windows?
i remember, of course, the extreme weather drills
from elementary school. my head between my knees.
all our small bodies lined up against the yellow wall.
we were no match for a school shooter.
he walked through all our marrow
kissing the end of a gun & whispering 
a song i've heard but can't remember.
i am a lucky person, or at least 
i tell myself this over & over.
a nightmare is waiting just under the lid.
contained. we eat a pigeon 
we found splayed out in the grass
eyes full of turning. we might one day
install a revolving door in the front of our house
so that we can pretend to be 
circling the earth before entering the house.
all things come back around
but here we are counting are fingers.
we are greedy or maybe we are 
conserving our resources. 
i joke i'm going to let the tornado out 
in the kitchen. i won't do it 
but i do like to imagine the pans 
smacking and clanging together in the air.
perhaps the catastrophe
is what we wanted. does a prayer count
if it happens out of reflex?
in the tiny crevasses of desire?
the candle is always listening.

today my fingernails are continents

& i wave with my eye lashes
to all the tiny people there
with their circuses & their afternoon arguments.
there is always another world
nestled inside the first. i watched
a hoard of chickadees chewing on bread
underneath a dead car whose been parked 
in the lot behind my house for weeks.
it has a yellow boot & three orange envelops.
inside the envelopes are maybe fines
but also possibly love poems.
you have to forgive me 
for writing stories onto every object.
a man once gave me a stone he found 
on the shore of maine. round, speackled, & heavy,
he said the stone reminded him of me.
i imagined myself hatching from a similar stone.
any egg could have a planet inside.
the yolk is a sweet sunrise 
learning how to bleed.  
a tiny mountain sprouts at each cuticle
& there will be humans who want to climb them.
they will invent special gear
& they will strive to perch
as close to the sun as possible.
my father once climbed on the roof of the house.
my brother & i watch
from the yard while he was made small
by distance. one alley way on my block 
is a refuge for leaves.
layers & layers. underneath the leaves 
are fragments of birds: a wing, a beak, a tail.
this where the birds go to bury themselves.
right now there are gigant humans
who peer down at us from their microscopes.
the whole galaxy whirls in front of them.
i'll call you a specimen & i can be 
a slice of science. what will we do 
if tomorrow i find myself smaller 
than the day before? my great aunt warned me
our bodies are shrinking--bones collapsing inward.
teeth are just another kind of doormat.
a whole comet passes behind my eyes.
i can feel it. i am not drawn to scale.
there were many mistakes. the trees on willis avenue 
are smaller than the rest of the world.
my mind is full of oak leaves.
spring will be here soon & every corner will swell.
there wil be no more room.
i tell the people down there 
to remain calm. that i am not in fact a giant
but really just a gentle god.
i mean them no harm. the ones who hear me
are prophets. the ones who don't
are fishermen. the lakes are dry as salt.

a neighborhood catelog of fears

someone is digging a grave
with a plastic sand shovel.
the death toll of birds on my block 
has climbed from six to eight today.
i found a tiny bird with its legs
poised in the air like tiny crooked flag polls. 
it is march which means all the lions i know
are hungry. i am afraid of meat
especially ground beef but i buy some anyway
to keep the lions satisfied.
i am usually only capable 
of over coming a fear if its for someone else.
sometimes i wonder if i will ever
leave this country. today, thousands of planes 
criss cross the sky leaving stretch marks 
on the blue dome. 
i try to imagine cows growing on trees
or the beef being harvested from the ground 
in all its pink tendrils.
everything is a plant if you change
the definition of plant. 
i too was once a trembling seed 
waiting for water. the soil here
is not fit for a field or even a garden.
i make a necklace of golden corn kernels.
a grave in the sand would be
a bad idea. the next strong rain 
the casket would be unearth.
wooden slick with water. i want
to be burried in the sand. 
what does that say about me?
if we're talking about fear,
i am also afraid of being touched
by a bird. sometimes they flutter 
from their perches like feathered asterisks. 
i don't know exactly what it is.
maybe that they are so fragile. 
i took one of my bones 
& hollowed it out in solidarity
using an espresso spoon.
all my friends have rational dreams
& here i am wanting to ressurect 
a small soft bird & here i am 
whistling at train as it rolls by again.
if just one bird came back to life 
i would go first to Spain 
& then to Ireland. then again, i enjoy
the idealized versions i have in my head.
i can visit a memory any time i want
without a passport. under great stress
i forget my name & write my mother's
as if to ask her to come save me.
the lion arrives & i lay completely still
which is the only way to survive
both lions & wars. how long
can you hold your breath?

a prom dress made of duct tape

adhesive to skin.
tape the silhouette on secure.
people need elaborate futures 
when they're seventeen years old. 
a silver binding. 
cross-hatch.
a mermaid dress. down to the floor.
soon, a disco ball will swell 
the size of a skull.
the shimmer will drench 
a gymanisum in dust. we took pictures
arm in arm. every night needs a good theme.
the red carpet rolled out of my mouth.
we danced in the moon light
as long as the dirt would have us.
what i really mean
is i wanted a dress 
that wouldn't come off. 
there are so many ways to fix yourself
to a single person. everyon'e corsage
planted in a garden where 
we are all dwindling animals.
i wanted to fill his mouth with flowers.
i wanted to be 
a man who loves men.
instead i was a girl craving
to be shut in one garment.
a flock of heels trace the night 
towards summer heat. a song plays
for a second time in a refracted palm.
god dips the sun in blue paint.
there are table clothes 
to cover this. there are center pieces
we could balance on our heads
for the rest of our lives. 
i didn't want any help. i wanted 
to take another silver roll around & around my waist
until i was un-openable. skin red around
all the edges. the night folding 
towards a paper ending. everything 
& i mean everything 
is disposable. even skin.
even memory. especially men. 
no, i mean boys. especially
a cusp. a clasp dangled me there.
i wanted a duct tape dress
so badly. instead a zipper crawled reptilian
up my spine. my bones were accessories.
his suite had tails.