family reunion on the second floor 

there is a fire but only on the second floor 
of my great-aunt's house. they don't use
the upstairs anymore & the whole floor 
slowly grows farther & farther away 
from the rest of the house. the stretching happens 
only on the inside. 
outside the house is quiant & beautiful.
the fire is also beautiful. i burns everywhere 
& only i know about it. i don't want to scare them.
my aunts are too old for the truth 
fire will bring. it flickers across the banisters 
& toils in the middle of their beds they no longer use.
they sleep in their easy chairs--
tv still on-- tv drowning out the smell
of burning. old stuffed animals burning.
curtains burning--even the faucet in the bathroom
drips with fire. what is fire
asking of them? the first time i saw the flames
i tried to put them out but these days
when i visit i try to talk to them. 
all the ghosts are in the fire. grandfathers 
& grandmothers & dead dogs all winding
between each other. they all want to eat
pears from the tree in the backyard.
they all want permission to go downstairs 
& i tell them to stay where they belong.
i lay in the bathtube of fire 
& i can hear a re-run of a baseball game
on the television downstairs. crack of 
a bat. a player running as far as he can.
if i'm being honest i know 
very little about my aunts & even less
about our family. so then why does the house
show only me this fire? the flames don't destroy me--
they lick my face. they try to turn me
into another ghost but my skin refuses fire.
maybe it's because i am an outsider.
my flesh prickles with light. they are going
to sell the house soon but we don't know when.
the future is wide & burning. they tell me 
the same stories over & over. they fall asleep
for blotches of time. they recognize me yes
but they don't know what i mean
in this house. sometimes i worry 
that i started the fire & just don't remember
but fires are always being born.
i kiss the fire goodbye before i leave.
it rushes around me. the second floor grows
a little bit taller.

display 

macy's window displays opened wide for me 
each morning for me before i walked up 6th avenue.
it's amazing how at any time of the morning
everyone is frantic in the city. brief cases 
full of diamonds & paper weights. men whose reflections
died years ago. i was bright & full of buttons.
i was a glistening dot of salt. in the displays
i took on whatever role the manikins suggested.
they took off my feet & told me to sit.
they dressed me in purses-- expensive purses
with royal names. lifting my head 
from my body they decorated it with sunglasses.
no one stopped to look in at us. outside 
the days whirled by. the sun leaped & leaped 
over his own shoulders. buses full of only tigers
let off right in front of the store. 
in the display i was beautiful. mural grew
from each angle of my joy. a pink siren 
whirled. a mosaic of all kinds of blues. 
in the photographs i was a model. someone pose-able
& ready to be anyone. i became a sun hat.
i became a beautiful girl with long straight hair
& a green lip stick twisting back & forth.
we were all so stunning. we were going to win 
some attention. i was going to
never go to work again. the buildings shrunk 
to the size of people. a field of people all peering in
to see the macy's display. none of them could name
what had brought them there but they were eager 
to purchase something. their wallets were
full of dragonflies. their hearts were full
of smog. new york city gets more beautiful
when you're behind a layer of glass. 
i invite a select few people to join me.
i dress them. we have to sell it 
though i don't know what "it" is. 
we would figure it. the buildings were
jealous. the stop lights turned to necklaces.
they wanted to be worn. every single bicycle 
became two blush compacts & the riders
painted their faces with those hues. 
i was never ready to leave but 
the sidewalk reminded me of desks
& so i would climb out & sell nothing
& walk block after block with 
everyone else.

close ups

i asked for a magnifying glass
because i wanted to burn ants like boys on TV.
i crouch in the mulch by the edge of playground 
& watch the ant hill bleed bodies
into the grass. school lets out at three pm.
streams of ants all rushing. dads factory 
lets him out at three-thirty pm. he doesn't
carry a lunch box like other men. maybe, like the ants
he chew on the edges of things. there are all kinds
of mounds to climb in & out of. choose your
rushing. i can see the ants clearly through the glass. 
all if them are boys. you can tell by how
they walk over each other. you can tell by
their scurrying. i poise the glass above
like god. all of their scribbled dot heads.
i try to search for their eyes but instead
i find their abdomens--they move like
dancers. the ants are dancing i think 
still holding the magnifying glass.
it is true that the glass makes a spot
of heat & maybe if i had more patience i could
focus it & burn the mound. i can't do it.
i try to hold still but my hand always
starts to shake & i wonder what's wrong with me. 
i imagine all these magnifying glasses
waiting up there behind the clouds.
god gets a good look at us. notices our shoe laces
& our fingernails. my pupils become as large as ant heads
& i walk with them. i carry a crumb 
over my head like a sacrifice.  
i feel the world getting hotter 
before i catch on fire. no one is holding
the glass. the school shutters
like a house. the molded earth shifts 
under our sneakers. all of us boys
looking for the glass. i tell them nothing
despite their clamoring. the heat becomes 
intolerable. we all lay down &
that's when i go-- 
a bloom of smoke & flame.
combustion. the other ants screaming 
with their pin-prick voices. each of them:
flashes of fire only seconds later.

in sugar

anything can be saved if boiled in sugar.
i want to make candied jupiter beetles 
& fireflies-- slide them into mason jars for winter.
no--i want to keep ones from every single year.
place them in rows on a shelf no one else 
will ever see. when i say i'm missing something
i mean getting older is like coming apart in fragments.
sometimes i feel like my body is getting 
farther & farther from the some truth. the train 
crushes sugar under wheels. when burnt 
sweet smells sharp like perfect fire.
i want to make sweet the earring you left
in my car & the spoon i stole for my parent's cupboard.
i want to caramelize the pens on your desk & 
that candle almost out of wax. dipping a wide spoon
into the white sugar. the hush of sand. 
cicadas in the sugar. ivy in the sugar. 
my barefeet in the sugar. scrubbing sugar
between your toes to make them shine.
processes of transfiguration. i lay in the sugar
& ask what it felt like to have once been green.
they sugar hushes me & i feel where the wind
might have moved through a field. we are all 
so sweet on the inside. a mother candies 
her child's teeth as they fall out one by one.
i dip strawberries in sugar & they tremble 
like bugs. what are we doing here, you & i?
we both know there's nothing good going to come
from feeling each other's mouth like this. 
the cavities burn holes in our tongues.
sometimes i want to be unrecognizable
but that is silly because no amount of heat
could break down that parts of myself 
i need to run from. someday i will make
only caramel. i will climb into the white sugar
& dream of cane. grab handfuls & write my name
in the grains. watch the grains swallow
each letter. a street lamp folds
in on itself as the ground below turns loose 
& sugary. i'm mixing spoonfuls of sugar
into water. i'm feeding the butterflies 
so much sugar they turn to glass. 
i'm telling them to trust me with their lives--
promising to make a display so that people can see
their fear as the sweetness makes stone.
i feed you spiders in sugar while you sleep
they will come alive somewhere down your through
where they will sew sweet silk webs. 
what am i going to do 
with all this sadness?

on melancholy 

a mouth bites down on a corn chip 
& there was a boy sitting on the end like a ledge.
a certain amount of crumbs are expected.
have you survived a number of explosions this morning?
he opens a jar & our comes a ghost thick
as jam. there's grapes whistling to each other
on their vines--they're scared. a nose 
presses into a face until it becomes a needle.
he grows his finger nails out too long.
they start to snag on stray threads. he takes
a scissors & distresses the hems of his skirts.
his fingernails are made of corn chips.
the mouth is crinkling a bag by shaking it
in its teeth. there's something wrong with 
the bananas-- they won't stop coughing. 
the spirits in the closer name themselves 
acetaminophen after the first item they read.
he chants & stirs a pot of chicken & stars--
the stars are real stars & they sizzle & pop
in the broth. broth of melted gold. he is 
doing his best or so he tells himself. the grapes
are doing their best as well but as for
the ghosts, they could always try harder.
lack motivation. the spoons are over achievers.
the boy steals spoons everywhere he goes.
he makes a family of spoons in his pockets 
& they clink together as if they're chattering.
they are good company. the windshield wipers 
simply don't work. they never have. they don't
press down hard enough on the surface
of the car. his skirt is ugly & he knows it.
the boy arranges crumbs like constellations--
a big spoon a little spoon. all the matters 
is spoons & all their carrying. the weight of
salt in the spoon. little stones. eating stones.
sending condolences. sending a wide range 
of tastes from sour to bitter to sugar.
his teeth turn to sugar & the mouth licks
its lips in front of him. he just wants 
something simple like a white sheet cake or 
a petting zoo with only goats. the world is 
so much shivering. he can't believe it.
he can't believe it's all happening. the ice
in his water. the brothers all chewing
on the horizon. a sky full of lips 
each without any lipstick. what's the point
of a blank pucker? the sourness is a kind
of daylight that creeps in between day & dusk.
the lime green sky. the houses becoming
match boxes. he is flammable & proud.
he wipes the crumbs from his mouth. he tells
a story to his family of spoons about 
being sick & looking for a cure. in the story
he never finds it. tries eating all kinds
of plants. the spoons get emotional 
over the story & he tells them 
not to worry that like everything 
it is just a story. the kernels
of his eyes pop. 
night comes out in globs.

wednesday is rubbish day 

so we take our rooms apart
& set them out 
on the curb. everyone is doing it.
we mirror each other. i started
because i saw a piled of broken wooden chairs 
in front of the building next door. 
a truck will come 
& make everything beautiful.
i set out the broken stool but i don't want
the stool to be lonely so i add another
& another & another until i've laid out
all our chairs even the wooden one 
in the corner with the regal arms 
& the bean bag who wasn't bothering anyone.
this is a cleansing i tell myself 
& the neighbor people are working too.
someone tosses their mattresses down
on the sidewalk--stacks them one on top
of another. another person drops 
appliance apart appliance: a toaster 
a blender & a coffee machine--
the glass basin shatters. each glass fragment 
turns into sugar in the air. we all have
too many objects. i witness a man
reach into his mouth & pull out
a trombone & i remember that somewhere
my trumpet lives playing itself to death.
that murky bell a remembered hallway. 
there are children snapping crayons 
& old men tearing pages from books. 
we don't acknowledge on another
but we see what's happening. no one will be
the same after the garbage truck comes
& everyone is looking to be transformed.
i'll do anything for that feeling & 
so will they. what else can we 
rid ourselves of?
one woman takes the inserts out of her shoes 
& another removes the laces. 
all these parts. so many pieces. 
there must be something more
we can do without. light bulbs unscrewed 
& set on the sidewalk--they flicker with light
from all the tension & static in the air.
the trash trucks come from
the sky or at least that's what it seems.
we don't want to stand 
too close so we watch from our windows.
huddled closely as we witness them 
grip a hold of everything with strong gloved hands.
i order gloves to be delivered in 1-2 days.
maybe that's what gives them powers.
we will sleep tonight on blank floors.
something like starting over--
reborn into nothing. all our clothes 
turn to birds & fly out the open window.
the windows push themselves out 
& break on the cement below.
all over the townspeople are thankful
& share stories of everything they had 
that morning. we pray to the trash trucks 
to come again each day. to please
take everything. 
make us clean.

dad & i as stamps 

i'd like to just be a stamp 
pressed neatly in a row of dad's collection.
safe behind a plastic covered page. 
my world measured square. right angle 
by right angle. he keeps the book
shelved alongside photo-albums.
spin crinkles with each page turns. 
the stamps are organized by subject. 
flowers. dogs. buildings. 
vehicles. people.
i asked dad if you had to be dead 
to be on a stamp 
& he said he was pretty sure
you did. all the founding fathers
& their scowls pressed into the page.
the album open in his lap. open
on the floor of the sun room.
in bed with me. i had a few weeks
of loving the stamp collection--
carrying it with me all around the house.
i was looking in each image 
to imagine what existed 
out of frame.
i should have thought 
more about dad-- not everyone's father
presses images into neat rows & 
memorizes where each came from.
if i was one of those stamps
maybe he would hold me even now--
maybe he would trance his finger
around the parameter of my box
& wonder about what kind of
life i lived. 
most of the stamps 
had faded. yellowing & brittle.
maybe he wanted 
a square for himself--
to crawl into miniature. 
a self portrait.
if i could i would place his beside mine
so that in 2-d we might
know each other even if only
by proximity. i would give him
a forest background 
& a full tooth smile. 
i can't choose what i would want
behind me forever. a backdrop. 
maybe just one color. blue 
to fall in. safe, even in my falling
always returning 
to place my body
in that frame.

i lived at the end of a hall of girls. 

i lived at the end of 
a hall of girls. 
we shared two bathrooms in Wilkinson-- 
each with two shower stalls; i would wait
until i heard no faucet or shower-head 
& that's when i would slip
into the tile room. mist on the mirrors 
from other girls. girls coming & going,
girls laughing. girls with headphones in. 
freshmen year everyone was beautiful.
i learned people's names 
by writing them on note cards &
quizzing myself at my wooden desk at night.
my bedroom had one window that looked out
over the whole campus. the best nights 
were when my roommate was gone & 
my boyfriend wasn't there. i could
stand in the middle of the room
as if it were all mine. the sounds 
all mine. the cool carpet & 
smell of clean walls, all mine.
i sometimes pretended to be
a ghost who lived in the building
all alone. i had died here 
my freshman year & never left. i was
eighteen. everyone was an 
adult. there was something
disembodying about the showers.
almost always someone would
enter after me & start showering
in the other stall. i could hear
their shower flip flops squeak.
a bottle of shampoo opening. 
fingers through hair--scrubbing
the scalp. did she listen 
to me? we were separated only
by a plastic divider. 
we were there with bodies
& we were both portioned out 
into segments of rooms. into white 
dining hall plates. into patterns
to & from classrooms. our books
splayed like dead birds on our desks.
we were sharing the same 
staircase. we were on the phone
in the stairwell. my roommate 
had long straight brown hair & 
all her decorations were color coordinated:
orange & pink. she kept beer 
in the mini-fridge.
she called her boyfriend sometimes 
& i put my headphones in so 
i wouldn't hear. sometimes we showered
at the same time. i would try to 
finish before her so we didn't
walk out at the same time. 
that might have been the closest 
i got to any of them. 
the smell of cucumber melon 
& tropical breeze shampoos. 
the hot water pouring 
over our bodies.

my grandmother went to italy 

& brought back only two pictures.
she removed them from her purse 
like playing cards. one of her, 
standing beside the leaning tower of pisa.
another of her made small next to
the vatican. she told us 
she didn't like it there like she thought she would.
it had been decades since she'd gone. a life time. 
i wasn't old enough to ask her more. 
the pictures told a story of how
our homes shift without us. i could have asked
who held the camera for both pictures.
if she asked a passerby. i could have asked
if she had been lonely there-- if she remembered 
the language or if it had vanished over the years.
every word is the ghost of who taught it to you.
a portrait of her mother & aunt hung in her apartment.
the two of them in italy in lovely ruffled dresses.
they would climb onto a boat & become
transformed by water. my grandmother was 
an apostrophe of a woman. 
the wind walked through her. in the rain 
she wore a plastic bonnet. in the heat she flicked a fan.
i can see her ambling on the outskirts 
of a tour group. all of them laughing.
all of them young & forgetful. even the old ones
feel young to her. she said to us
that she didn't need to go back again.
she stacked the two pictures.
tucked them away in her purse & 
i've never seen them since. 
they slipped away somewhere between 
the nursing home & the apartment.
she remembered less & less of italy
until it became a symbol. the world can become
very tight very quickly. the photographs
float somewhere face-up. maybe there are people
who held her camera who hold the cameras
of other lonely tourists
searching for something they cannot name.
i would like to be one of them.
to take just two pictures 
& then tuck them away.