tropical melon paradise body spray 

i kept tropical melon paradise body spray 
in my locker. i picked a locker tucked away 
in the back corner. sweat is cruelest 
to high school girls. the smell of our feet.
our sneakers blushing with grass stains.
i wrote my locker combo on a sticky-note
slipped in my backpack. as the year went on 
the note became barely legible. the note
folded & torn into pieces. i taped the combo 
back together. we played basketball. we played
ping-pong. i dreaded  
step aerobics. the rows of girls
following the gym teacher. she had 
a tight pong tail & defined leg muscles.
all of us in sync performing motions
almost as if we knew each other. girls 
all in the same grey & blue gym uniform. 
my hands would shake after. i would
run brush through my hair. the strands 
gone stringy & greasy from exertion. 
pressing down the head of the body spray 
& feeling the mist land on arms & 
shoulders & back. arm "pits" suggests 
that there's somewhere on the body
where you might fall in. i was 
ashamed of the stains on my gym shirt.
the light grey was unforgiving. 
more body spray. i bought the spray 
at CVS. i knew i needed something 
to cover myself with. it was like
wearing a second dress on top 
of the first one. the spray suggested 
a run away island where girls
lay all over & never have to run laps 
& never have boys stare at them while they run.
the girls on the island pluck melons 
from trees & share the fruit with each other.
they drip with sweat & they love the sweat.
their sweat is sweet. their sweat is
beautiful. other girls would probably tell me
the spray smells "sickly sweet" if i asked
but i love it. during the fall & spring
we play outdoors. in winter we use 
the gym. the boys class wears the same
uniforms. we are separated. we are 
cut down the middle. we play golf.
smack the small white balls into a net.
we go to the weight room. learn what 
our muscles mean. the equipment smells 
like rubber & bodies. i smell myself 
to make sure i still smell like 
tropical melon paradise. i lift
heavier & heavier weights. my limbs ask me
to be a stronger girl. leg lift.
leg press. arm curl. squats. 
we were becoming something between 
seeing each other strain. i closed my eyes 
sprayed my body & for that second
my skin was nectar.

keys to a car i no longer own

i consider becoming a pick pocket
every time i walk in the city.
it's not that i want to steal anything 
but just that everyone is so close together 
& i want to know what they might be carrying.
just a few days ago on my way home 
the Q train got held underground. 
everyone stared up at the ceiling 
listening for the conductor 
like the voice of god.
there was a man holding a guitar case 
& a girl cradling a doll who wore her same outfit.
we were all very small. 
miniatures even.
one man removed a clementine from his pocket
& i wondered if anyone else was harboring fruit.
i sucked on my tongue with hunger.
my mouth was crowded with faint tastes
of the apple i'd eaten hours ago. 
in my pocket i had keys to a car 
i no longer owned & keys to an apartment 
i had just moved out of. if someone stole them
they'd get no where & i smiled thinking this.
another man in a long coat kept his hands
in his pockets the whole time.
i was scared of him like maybe 
he clung tight to a knife or a gun.
i am scared of what i cannot see.
i am scared of everyone's secrets
& maybe i am scared of pockets &
what might fit in them.
at 4:30 when i left the office each day 
the side walk was always rushing.
i'd close my eyes sometimes just to hear
the sound of all those feet.
we were a great machine at least 
for the moment. we were carrying everything.
packs of gum & pocket watches & 
monthly long island railroad tickets.
i almost asked several times if 
someone would please slip me in their pocket
& walk me to penn station. tucked in there
i would feel safe & enclosed for once.
new york is a diorama looking at itself. 
new york is a the colony living
inside the shaft of a telescope.
maybe microscope. how far away is god?
replace god with conductor. 
it took about 45 minutes for the train
to start up again. 
we should have emptied our pockets
on the ground. shown each other everything.
any one of us could have fallen in love.
any one of us could have had the same items.
the man standing in front of me
nearly nods off to sleep three times.
his back pocket was right in front of me
but of course i didn't touch it.
the world is too dangerous for that.
i like to think i was sleeping there
inside his pocket or maybe that he 
also had keys to a car he didn't own anymore.

i'm turning into my dad 

that year he started working the night shift
was the same year we put curtains up
in the living room. they smelled too new.
the upstairs tv played static & my brother 
& i sat in front of it, 
pretending to see stories before bed. 
we didn't have cable yet or a computer.
we wore over-sized t-shirts as pajamas
& traversed the house--stamping it with our 
bare feet. dad worked as a janitor at the factory. 
that's what he told us. i never saw
the inside of his building 
or even the door he walked through 
to enter. i'd lay down
on the bottom bunk & listened
for the front door to close 
as he left each night.
i tried to imagine the halls. did he walk 
with a bucket & mop? did he polish windows?
a circular motion rubbing at the glass.
a circular motion scrubbing the ground.
the only janitor i knew was the one
at the elementary school. 
he had a scratchy looking beard & 
sometimes he ate lunch with us. 
i wondered who dad at lunch with 
& if any other dads brought their children.
were there other janitors? 
i never asked him any of these questions.
i wore one of his old shirts to bed
& waited on the sofa in the morning 
for him to come home. static on the tv.
i memorized a joke to tell him
about the static but forgot it the moment
i saw him. his rumpled blue coat
& his mess of grey-black hair. 
he asked why i was up so early
& i said i was waiting for him. 
the curtains were green & sheer. 
almost like the veil of my communion dress
hanging in my closet upstairs. 
he sat beside me. i saw him
on his hands & knees now
trying to get a stain out of a linoleum floor.
his faint reflection in the floor.
the gleam of florescent lights above.
i asked him how work was & he shrugged.
back then i assumed children took the jobs
of their parents so i was trying
to learn what my life would be like
when i was a night janitor. i looked forward to it.
i thought maybe he got to work 
entirely alone. maybe the plant was peaceful at night.
maybe he could talk to himself
& hear his voice echo around him. 
he ruffled my hair & told me he was going to bed.
the sun peered through the curtains
gold & too bright. 

yard sale 

each april was a celebration. 
we undid our spaces. culled our rooms
for value. i carry a bookend, 
a lamp, & a stuffed giraffe
to the front yard. we're setting out blankets
for the smaller items & dad is pushing
the old mantel out to the grass.
uncle rich manages to lug the piano 
from his side of our house into the yard.
he presses the out of tune keys. 
he doesn't know how to play. he asks dad
how much he thinks the instrument might be worth.
he doesn't think it's worth much because
it's got chipped keys & water damage.
everything is worth less than you want it to be.
my brother brings down a hamper full of 
toy sharks. he explains that each is worth
no less than two dollars. he cries
& says he doesn't want to sell them.
i swallow any sentiments i have 
for the good of the yard sale. cars pass by 
all of them too fast. i always imagined
more people stopping than who end up
actually coming to look at our items. 
these people don't appreciate who much of our lives
we've put out here, i'd think.
i stand at the end of our driveway 
& wave at every passing car. i stay out there all day,
sitting on a plastic folding chair while dad
searches the house for more to add. he brings out
the fish tank. he brings out the stone cross
from the wall of the kitchen. he brings
shutters & the faucets off sinks.
he says we need more if we're going
to catch anyone's eye. i join him. 
i take apart my bunk bed & yank clothing
off hangers. a mound of our belongings.
i price each item in my head.
i tell dad i'm asking only for 
reasonable amounts--that i'm not
going to be greedy. a man 
pulls his red car to the side of the road.
he looks nervous as he sifts through
all our belongings. we are too eager 
& we scare him away.
as he drives off & we remark to each other
that maybe he would have stayed if he'd seen
the coat wrack or the lamp. yes those
are beautiful. yes those were ours once
before we emptied the house.
i tell dad that i want to make just
a few dollars 
& he says that's all he wants too.
the day passes & we contemplate 
cutting the tree in the yard down 
to sell the wood. we might try
laying on the blankets ourselves.
we consider the house behind us
& if it's worth keeping.
dad sells the mantel & helps a man
load it into his pick up truck.
we cry with relief. dad gives me 
five dollars from the sale. the sun starts
setting. bright orange. dad pretends
to buy an old stuffed dinosaur of mine.
i thank him for his business. 

a trail of ants walks out the bath room window

their bodies form a string so i pull it. 
the house is made from folded paper 
& the room turns inside out
into a blow-up box. i put my lips 
to an opening & empty myself of air.
without air i am a just a knot 
of clothing. my skin turns to mist.
the ants are making patterns all over
the walls. they're making trap doors.
they're making promises now too--writing
words with their bodies. they explain to me
that they never believed in humans
until they saw me with my hands &
all my crying. i sit on a windowsill 
& contemplate jumping but the world outside
turns all to paper. folded street lamps
& folded sidewalks. nothing to 
break me on. i am an egg now. 
there's an expatriation date 
stamped on my teeth. i ask strangers 
to read it aloud to me. i have 
4 days to be eaten so i'm looking
for a good huge man. a man who understands
ants & who considers insects each morning.
i want a man who folds houses,
whose thumbs have made creases.
the asphalt is crawling ants--
all of them hungry for sweetness.
what will you do with your desires 
to shatter? who will fold you a house?
all the glass becomes water.
puddles on the floor. i drown 
in one of the puddles but not before
i walk on water. the ants follow me
across the water--their light bodies
refusing to sink. what do you really know
of a mouth? everyone i've ever known
wears a paper one. it falls off
in the rain & they have to make new ones.
the last boy i loved folded me
mouth after mouth after mouth.
i asked him if i could please
love him forever but forever became
a string of ants in my mouth.
he pulled the string. i turned
inside out. he became a bright window 
i now peer out of. i now sit 
on the edge of. there's a constant
sense of falling in my body. 
i want meant to be water. 
i am water.
the ants scrawl prayers 
on my palms.
i read them left to right
left to right. i am being
saved. i am making a god
out of glass. the house becoming
clear glass windows. the sun 
a wade of bright insect
screaming into light. there's 
a man laying down in my bed 
but i don't recognize him.
i cup my hands & fill them 
with water. i'm going
to baptize him. i pour the water
on his forehead & he disperses
just like i knew he would. just like
all men want to. 
they're experts 
at escaping.

when i'm old & have too many

i hope to have a stand at an antique market
when i'm old & have too many small sincere items.
dad & i would get up early on a saturday.
blue morning. the sun peering over all our objects.
we'd to go exploring the piles of antiques 
spread across adamstown's gravel parking lots.
a sea of trinkets resting on wooden tables 
& quilts. dad sifting through plastic tubs 
of old coins. he was trying to find just the right one.
he'd pick one up at a time & say 
not it, not it, not it.
i would find a toy stand 
& look for a bin of action figures.
my tiny soft hands rooting between plastic bodies.
it never occurred to me back then that those coins
& those toys belonged to someone. 
someone held them between thumb & finger 
with purpose. tucked coin in a back pocket.
walked the toy people 
across a living room carpet. where i'm from
we don't own anything notable
though up the street someone sold a boat.
it lay rusting in their front yard for weeks 
before someone bought it for scrap metal.
we take pride in our antique market finds.
a neighbor of mine had plastic cows
all over her kitchen as decorations.
another one collected old milk bottles.
he planted flowers in all of them each spring.
dad & i once found a giant stuffed trout
that i hugged all the way home
as we drove winding pennsylvanian roads.
what i'm trying to say is i want to die
by giving away whatever unique pieces 
i happen to own. i want to set my books in stacks
on a bright april morning & let strangers 
pick through them. all my old stuffed animals
tired & sun worn but still useful.
at the antique market nothing is useless.
the vendors walk with each other 
to the breakfast food stand & order hash browns 
& egg sandwiches. dad & i eat too.
sit next to each other. discuss
what more we'd like to find.
dad wants a world war 1 bayonet
& i want a nice felt hat. i will be sitting there
in a folding chair at my stand,
selling myself a hat with white fake flowers
sewn into the rim. she will pay in crumpled dollars.
a gust of wind will try to blow the hat
off her head but she will catch it.
i will wave 
as she leaves to show our dad.
i will go home with all the trifles
that no one chose. load them up in a truck.
this is a chance to pick each one up again
& remember what it meant when it was 
new in my fingers. i will consider
giving up & not selling any of my remaining items
but i'll remind myself 
that this is how people like us
are remembered. a quiet scattering.
dad & her drive home. she sets the hat
in her lap.

transitioning into a plum tree 

after surgery i craved foods i hadn't eaten for years.
they had me set up in the guest room. light came in the window
all times of the day. sun or street lamp. mostly, i wanted to be
alone. downstairs i heard my friend's family. the chirp of
pots & pans. the mumbling of the TV. i kept a jar of prunes
by the side of the bed--placing one in my mouth at a time
& pretending as if the prune might turn back into
a plum. i have never seen a plum tree so i 
Googled pictures. branches laden with fruit.
it was a bitter january. the prunes were so sweet.
the folds of their flesh syrupy-sweet as if they were
full of honey. i ate out of boredom some days.
i tried to keep routine. wake up at 9am i told myself
but never quite did. in my friend's bathroom mirror
i tried to take off my shirt to look at the scars.
couldn't lift my arms above my head. eventually got
the shirt off. i felt like there was no way
i was becoming anything. i wanted to take
the gauze off & be human again. or maybe 
not human at all but a plum tree thick with 
white flowers ready to swell into purple fruit.
i pressed myself into the bed like a flower.
i tried to read but could never focus.
i tried to walk along the creek nearby but never
had the energy. i filled my mouth 
with prunes. let the sweetness treat me
kindly. i swear i could feel the sun that dried 
each fruit though i'm sure they're made in a factory.
how dare a mouth provide such release. 
i was so sorry for being taken care of.
my mom texted me to ask to ask if 
she could see me. i don't remember what 
i said but she didn't & it wasn't her fault
or at least that's what i told myself.
i didn't cry at all the whole time.
no even at the hospital. i was brave,
i told myself. more accurately
i was asking each prune to teach my
something new about transformation.

a tree of skulls grows in the living room

cracks in bone spread vine-like & 
teeth chatter in their own languages--
fall out on the wooden floor still trembling. 
the tree is just like the one 
we stood in front of at the museum of natural history.
it charts the evolution of humans
& my roommates & i sit on the floor to get a closer look
at how each skull changed. the tree has
replaced our TV. the tree has replaced
all the windows in our house. we love the tree.
we point to the skulls we wish we had. 
behind glass had we made fun 
of the neanderthals with their 
large skulls & their knotted hair. their knuckles
thick with brute force. one exhibit showed
a male & female neanderthal walking 
side by side & we joked about 
what they might consider a date:
rubbing mud on each other's faces,
pulling up tufts of grass, chewing strip of sinew. 
the truth is i want to do all of that 
to love someone. i felt the contours of 
my skull. the tree rattled to summon us closer
but we didn't want to get any closer.
the tree grows bodies from each cranium.
soft ancient people. what kinds of dreams
did their bodies have? was there a moment
when only one neanderthal was left?
what did she tell herself 
alone between trees.
we are terrified of them. how did
we let our home become like this?
a site for the gathering of bodies.
the plaques explained that neanderthals
might have died because of clashes
with humans. we start apologizing to them.
we tell the neanderthals that we think
they['re beautiful. that we would
go back in time & make sure 
we never killed them if we could.
of course, there's other possibilities
for their extinction: climate changes,
disease, famine, & so on. we know those
aren't true though. we know humans 
always have their hands in death.
the neanderthals are forgiving.
they want to touch our skulls
so we let them. we promise them 
we are trying our best to be
good animals & they laugh like
snapping twigs at us. humans are
so tragic & we look at each other differently.
our apartment is too small for all
these mouths & all these teeth.
we ask the neanderthals politely 
if they could leave & they are kind 
so they do. we cry about the emptiness.
we pace the hallway. we remember how
at the museum the baby neanderthals
reminded us of all our younger brothers.
they're off in the world now
but the tree remains. we take it apart--
skull by skull. set them on the curb
to be taken away 
with two black trash bags in the morning.

several kinds of capture

i wake up again & again
in my childhood bed:
mattress sunken in
& sheets bright blue 
laundry soap smelling
in the hallway something is pacing.
i imagine the broken-rib bed springs
as a field of parched rose bushes. 
my green curtains blow open.
i remember nothing of the dreams
but sensation.
i stand in the middle of the room.
the last dream left me
asking lichens to dress my body 
in their soft green continents
as if to ask for reprieve from 
buttons & zippers.
they grew slowly & i pleaded with them 
to hurry because i was hiding from something. 
this was a time lapse video
of the forest where i witnessed
mushrooms pushing 
their skulls up from the moss.
the leaves blushed & fainted
to the earth. 
the worst part about a dream
is no one else in it believes you.
i was trying to tell someone how scared i was
of being captured but they were running away from me.
they were laughing. they thought 
i was playing tag. we needed to find
an exhibit of glass sculptures 
but all our phones had died. the subway was 
lush with ferns. 
a jaguar prayed the bible 
as he walked on the ceiling. 
a parrot said
over & over if you see something say something
if you see something say something
i spoke back to the parrot
we are going to be captured 
we all have to leave.
in my room the dream flicks. turns to rubber.
turns to carpet.
drags a finger across a window. 
i am too old
to be scared of the dark i tell myself 
i shine a flash light 
in every corner of the room. 
the full length mirror reveals me.
my face flushed. my body still covered
in lichens.

the three of us were 15 

& we ate powdered donuts on her couch. 
we played kiss, marry, fuck
which was the older-girl version 
of kiss, marry, kill. i always struggled 
to order the boys. the problem of who to fuck
& who to kill is not all that different.
i was the only one who always wanted 
to use a piece of paper. i wanted to see them
in front of me. as we played we watched 
a horror movie. little light came from the TV
as the scenes were dark. in the movie
a little boy wanders away from his body
in his sleep. i wanted to tell them about
how this had happened to me. how some nights
i would wake up staring at myself in bed.
this didn't seem like the right time
because they were trying to decide
who to fuck. they always put 
a certain boy in my list & i found myself 
killing him over & over & 
by the i mean i found myself
fucking him over & over.
our conversation weaved between
the boys & the movie & what we would
paint our rooms if our parents 
let us do whatever we wanted.
she told me she wanted to paint her room black
& spatter the walls with neon paint.
she told me this would be good for fucking
& i thought it would be good for killing.
she said she was going to actually do this 
& that she would invite us over
to decorate the room together--
that she would paint our bodies neon
& we would glow there in the dark room.
all i could think about was how
my uncle told me once that dark colors
make rooms feel smaller. i room closing in
on three girls. i ordered my boys again.
i wanted to kiss them all. i wanted to
paint them in neon paint
in a very small room. in the movie
demons intercept the boy when 
he wanders too far from his body.
the world of his dreams is
full of fog. she screams as a demon
wraps his fingers around the boy.
the world is small & dark there.
she is fucking every single boy.
we never wanted 
to marry any of them.