people in stained glass houses my uncle replaces all the windows in our house with stained glass while we're asleep. he starts with the small rectangular ones on the way up the stairs. he doesn't use glue or adhesive-- he just tells the pieces of colorful glass that they must stay in place. he barters with them he says if you stay here & let the light pass through you i will come here every night with new colors for you to wear. he doesn't know where this idea comes from or how he knows that the windows are ravenous for new colors. the windows agree though & let him fill them each with shards green & brown broken bottles from the drive way where the beers through themselves after he finishes them off. i hear the crashing from my window each night & i count them. sometimes twenty sometimes ten. sometimes just one or two. sometimes when they break they turn into moths right away-- moths with glass wings tinkling as they flutter & break more when they smack against the porch light. my uncle used to work in a stained glass shop, but that was a long time ago. i never saw the shop, so i would imagine him in a building where all the walls were different glass colors making a collage of bright oranges & red & yellows across his face. he steals from church windows each night to appease the ones in our home. he brings them all shades of red & blue & purple. the churches all over town have missing teeth but only a few people notice & the ones who do are scared of what missing shards of glass could mean, so they tell no one. one person reads it as a prophecy & prays for god to choose someone else. my uncle doesn't tell the family about the windows & none of us say anything either. in the morning i make my rounds through the house to peer out each one & check for the new pieces of color stolen the night before. i talk to the windows & ask them what they see when they look through me. i tell them i see the backyard full of fragments-- the tree wearing a red slip. my uncle isn't satisfied & starts to replace walls with stained glass. the saw rattles the house at night & we find the living room a box of color. none of us have the heart to tell him to stop. the bottles break themselves loud the next night ten twenty thirty. he constructs a room of brown glass a glossy scab-- a bottle for a door knob. he closes the door in our house made of beautiful beautiful glass & we're scared to move-- everything is so fragile clinging to itself only for the promise of more colors.
07/04
fragile i build all my furniture from eggs: cold white porcelain ovals perfectly stacked together. kneeling on the ground i lay them in rows-- talk to them ask them which other egg they want to lay next to. you have to be very careful with a house full of egg furniture. only one person can sit on that chair & the sofa requires you to lower yourself slowly-- listen for shifting so that they don't all spiral apart. i hold the furniture together with promises & sometimes encouragement. i tell the eggs that through this they might learn how to hold an embryo & hatch. i say imagine a whole couch bursting with animals & each egg has its own dream as to what creature it wants to hold. i lie to them & say that some humans are even born like this-- that i emerged from a kitchen table my mother & father meticulously built together. i am creative. i teach an egg to be a light bulb & another egg to be a windowsill. i suggest stained glass & the eggs try to make their shells into more beautiful colors. this doesn't work. my house is bright egg shell everywhere. i lay down in the bed of eggs & move my fingers across them. promising to keep them all warm. none of them will hatch but i have to pretend they will so that the eggs don't lose hope. it's hard to have a lover stay the night because i always have to explain the eggs-- have to tell them why they have to be careful as they climb into bed. i want to meet someone who isn't afraid of my furniture-- who wants to run fingers gently over the surface & imagine themselves submerged in golden yolk. every once in awhile i'm reckless & i pluck one egg from the structure sending the whole thing tumbling apart. i know i should but a particular egg stares at me & seems to say that it will be the living one-- that it holds a great bird or a lizard or a sibling. smashed eggs all across the floor. i clean them up with my bare hand so as to feel the fragments & the yolk before rebuilding
07/03
potluck but with dirt everyone brings their own dug from the yard bought from big warm bags at the hardware store scooped from beneath a favorite tree cull from under a bed removed from the floor of a closet ladled from the park with a silver spoon the guests arrive on my porch carrying pales & fine china. no one talks. everyone looks stoic because they've never done this before. pour out their containers on the carpet one at a time & i eye up the selection. my favorite type of dirt is rich dark soil, the kind you want to plant you hands in & see what they might grow into if left with that texture for too long. we add layers till the floor is thick with different blotches on dirt outside the trees peer in & are jealous. we're not sure why we're doing this at least not yet. i never knew any of these people i just made a flyer that said "dirt potluck" & they came. some plant their eyes, removing them carefully with their shovels or spoons. some plant a tooth, making a hole in the dirt to place it. others, like me want to bury more than just appendages. i take whole photograph & cover them & then i move on to necklaces & rings & vases & coffee mugs & books-- all tucked under dirt. the thing about a potluck is there's something for everyone the dirt mingles & urges each object to burst-- leaves, necks, wings. my objects because a skeleton in the dirt & we work to dig it up while other people's body parts become a see-saw, a fig tree, & a lamp post. the potluck seems just like none sense like a strange mishap but it was what we needed & me & the other people weep for our dirt. we lay down in our dirt & feel the warmth wriggling through feel the dirt almost as another being. i take fistfuls of dirt & fill my pockets. the guests follow my lead & do the same, helping each other get ready to remove what they have grown. i should have asked for help cleaning up but then there's more soil for me & i reach in to see one of those great bones peer out at me.
07/02
on the curb i watch the steam coming from a manhole cover a bowl of mircowaved soup below the city i try to guessed the flavor from the steam. or maybe it's a baked potato with mist coming from two fork holes in the side. microwaved potatoes never cook evenly but i never cook them twice. i chew through the raw bits warm but crunchy. underneath the city a woman lives alone. she loves to cook but all the recipes are for big families. she doesn't want a big family but sometimes she sets a table with food at every station pretending some guests don't like the spinach & others want only white chicken breast. she wraps the plates up to eat later. the steam turns into yarn gray strings sticking out of the manhole cover. i tug on one & a bell rings. coffin bell i think yes let me out of this box. by box i mean city because the city is very small & holds so many people. i counted twenty seven just in my subway car. after i counted them they turned into moths. i said farewell. the woman who lives down there just wanted some of her own space. she doesn't have a sofa so she sits on a plastic box of her old shoes she won't throw away. i lift the manhole cover to follow the yarn. bloom of steam smelling of broth. chicken noodle soup maybe she's sick i think. but she's not & her house is also a box with no windows. she's scared to have a guest so i lay on the floor flat out like a bug so maybe she won't notice. she doesn't at first taking me for another one of those baby roaches but then i sneeze & she laughs at how silly she was to think a whole human was an insect. we eat from the same microwaved bowl & she tells me how she works remotely & doesn't have to leave her bed room. i tell her i'd like a job like that but also that i wouldn't mind actually being an insect in her home. she says she would feed me & treat me kindly. she doesn't mind bugs. they're quiet & shiny. i become quiet & shiny though still not a bug. we finish the soup & i follow the grey yarn back out.
07/01
how to eat a shadow with everyone watching my shadow becomes so ripe that fruit flies gather singing their radio static into the house. i want to kill them like i usually do but there's something human about them today. i scoop out the seeds from my shadow like a pumpkin great handfuls of flat black seeds knotted with flesh fingers scraping skin & the flies inching closer each trying to play a different song from their mouths as if there were a pile of speakers turned small & buzzing. everyone has been telling me i should eat my shadow but i was scared. i watched it swell everyday heavy with syrup & nectar. it grew more detailed too sometimes my shadow had eyes & other days it had finger nails. the branches of dead trees tell us if you let your shadow go too long it will live your life for you-- wrapping its fingers around your wrists & pulling you onto the ground. i set the shadow on the cutting board & i use the largest knife i have even though i could easily just use a paring knife. i want to feel in charge. the flies sit in rows watching hoping to catch flecks of sugary water as i slice. the shadow stares up at me & i try not to look. i tell the shadow i am sorry & that i wish things were different & that i could let it grow into a full human with hair & teeth & eyes. i eat chunks as i work & the shadow tastes like a peach with the texture of a watermelon. grey-ish juice down me arms the flies ask if they can kiss me & i say no but they're persistent with their long blue tongues. the shadow is deeper than it looks on the outside. in the final bites as i eat it's face it starts to cry & i tell it i loved its company & i imagine all the days walking home from the train with my likeness stretched tall on the sidewalk outside. the flies lick the counter top & go back to singing their different songs. i plant a seed from the shadow in the floor boards so another on can grow while i sleep under the sweet glow of the street lamps.
06/30
i pretend robocalls are from people i miss 1. Baldwin, NY 11:49am i've been waiting for you to call for so long. on nights in august i think of the times i canceled our plans, how i kept a closet full of sparklers & never used a single one because i bought them for us. my bed room has no windows now & so i imagine you carving one out of the drywall with your pocket knife. 2. Santa Rosa Beach, FL 1:34pm there's a scar on my neck from where you bit me. i touch it when i look at myself in the bathroom mirror, pretend that it's a rewind-button & my body is just a cassette player tangled with noise-ribbons. you plugged your bass into my mouth & sang a song about loving me. you had strong hands eager to yank any door off its hinges though you never did so in front of me. our sex felt like young lions wrestling in the brush. i bit your ear, you bit my neck. 3. Aberdeen, MD 4:00pm anytime someone passes me who smells like tropical fruit i think of your curly hair & your blue blue backyard pool. how i sat on the edge while you swam. the muscles on your back making moths with their sculpture. you would change bathing suites all through the afternoon & i loved each iteration, landscapes printed onto your body: blue, burst of pink flowers, safari trees. i wore bikinis to keep up with you but they always made me feel naked, like something was going to cut me open. 4. Bath, PA 9:05pm you were a basket of ripe strawberries that needed to be eaten right now. my fingers on your cheeks, pressing through the skin. freckle seeds. one after another before you were gone & i was just another pair of fingers. i was gentle with the leaves on your head. index finger & thumb i plucked them off & let them drift to the floor like eye-lashes. 5. unknown 11:11pm the carnival's light dropped to into dark grass like hard candies. you stood there letting the illuminations flutter over your skin. i thought we could be friends & we could go swimming in the pond even though it was covered with a layer of wonderful green muck. for weeks i thought of how we locked eyes, neither one willing to be the first to break away. i invent names for you. i place dandelions in your hair: one behind your ear, others to make a crown, & one for me to put in my mouth.
06/29
my boyfriend & i watched the lawn grow they put planks in Xs across the windows of the corner house. we stood on the curb across the street to stare at the emptied structure. greenish mold grew on the siding. we paused each day in hopes one of us might think of a question to ask each other. in high school, after you've dated someone more than 6 months there's not much else to say. we paced his neighborhood & kissed & kissed & kissed. first the lawn grew scraggled like the day you decide you need a haircut & i insisted on standing closer so that i could lean down & touch it. prickly color. green texture. i wanted to lay down in it with him despite the buzz & the thrum of the insects surely hiding between blades. next time the grass had swelled as high as our hips as if it were a great viridian pond. we could wade in & take off our clothes, watch the grass swallow my dress & his shorts as we crouched down dipped our heads under. maybe we would turn green then & instantly have wild hair to fingers through. i said noting as we watched the wind make ripples in the lawn. he wondered if they were ever going to come & cut it again. his voice sounded worried as if he knew how much i wanted the lawn to burst, to spread. in real life, the next time we passed the lawn was trimmed down again but in this version i'm writing grass took the sidewalk grass tore out mailboxes. grass poured into the cul-de-sac. we tread water in grass & grass wraps itself around our bodies. the grass turns soft almost like fingers & it coaxes everything out of us. i tell him i don't believe in god even though i've always pretended to for him. he tells me dreams of my body wrapped in plastic in a box like a doll he dreams of me sleeping inside a crock pot waiting for him i imagine him building a house for us where we both have separate rooms. i see him picking apricots & hurling their pits at my forehead all the while the grass pulls us down deeps & the ants frolic between stalks & the grass is a forest & the house with the boarded up windows is the one we will share.
06/28
what did people talk about at public executions? water. tulips. i have a brother. today while sitting in the park i heard a person walking by say i have to fuck Mike i just have to & a few minutes later another said tomorrow is at least a thursday tomorrow is at least a thursday. zucchini blossoms are surprisingly bright like if a flame decided that it needed a flower with its name. i'm standing in the crowd with a zucchini blossom in my mouth. everyone with different flowers in their mouths some people with two. hydrangea. carnation. daffodil. oil in the pan. you can fry flowers & they'll taste more like skin than plant. pigs are terrifying & somewhere they are almost-human screaming. the pop & crackle of oil. we're standing in the pan until our hooves are golden brown. thursday stands up & stretches it's long green legs before moving to a patch of shade & curling up like a dog. i point & say aloud yes there is tomorrow right over there. the guillotine was messy & ropes strung up people like dolls made of rock. i don't know why i'm thinking about this. every day i watch crowds of people pours out of buildings & need a way of making them all stand still. i stand with a swarm of flowers & ask passers by to open their mouths so i can stick one in. i also want to fuck Mike whoever he is not for pleasure but so i can tell him that i've heard about him that people in the park talk about him aloud all sorts of brothers coming out of her mouth. i tell him he should come down & stand in a flood of people with me. mud slide. firework. lighter. & then when it was over what did they say? to each other? to the rocks? to the pigs? more flowers yes that's all you can do. i pull the whole zucchini out of my mouth yes thank god thank god tomorrow is thursday.
06/27
i've loved a lot of jungle gyms invited them into my house to sleep even though they should sleep outside where they can get their nightly serving of ripe stars & headlights. i have crumpled jungle gyms into balled up pieces of paper. i have filled bowls with mulch & poured them on my bed room floor in the hopes a slide might grow beside my bed by morning. criss-crossing bars to hang from i dangle upside down from a jungle gym in my closet where all my clothes turn into children to play on the bars. one child doesn't climb. is afraid of heights. i never understood that. i've always been afflicted with wanting to climb out open windows. a jungle gym pacing in the hallway hungry but too tired to leave. a jungle gym taking up half the bed & i am falling asleep & climbing anyway. i go outside & feed on stars & headlights greedy handfuls. all mine not sharing. my clothing scampering on the sidewalk & singing inaudible rhymes jumping invisible rope. i try to join but they snarl & run. a slide blooms where we once had the big staircase up to our apartment so i have to climb up on my hands & knees. squeak of the plastic slide. the moon tries to crawl in after me & it's lucky it's a half-moon or else it wouldn't fit. thick strong fingers. knuckles like door hinges. a jungle gym howling at the door frame. a jungle gym raiding the fridge. me stroking the jungle gyms & telling them calm down & even metal has to sleep. this makes them furious. how dare i tell them how use a skeleton. i tell them a story about each boy i've loved & they are horrified & decide they will never love anyone. the clothing children hang themselves back up on hangers & the sun kisses the moon boldly on its neck. scared & ravenous the jungle gyms beg me to tell them all my favorite memories of their bodies. how could i not? i re-trace myself. i remember myself with softer skin. i kiss cool foreheads & threaten them with jumping out the window. they beg me not to. each slides down the slide to leave & when they're gone i miss them. i got out the next night to see them playing in the splotches of grass by the parking lot. they laugh with swing-set tongues.
06/26
open house in the next town over from us all the houses are mansions with sprawling front lawns i would like to lay in. not because i need or want to be rich but maybe because deep down we've been trained want. i imagine glass windows & window chimes on a porch. all kinds of people come park their cars on the side of the road to peer out at the mansions, rolling down their windows for a moment or two, like a safari, as if the mansions are these huge animals worth taking photographs of. as if they're all just sleeping here. last week there was a sign for an open house & you joked we should go pretending we wanted to buy. my glance lingered over deep plum-colored shutters wide glass windows tall wooden fence with a latched gate. i want to take out the organ in me that makes me want all the terrible things. what i didn't tell you was that i went to the open house all alone to meander in the body of a mansion while couples with shiny expensive bodies glinted around each room asking questions about dimensions & space. the realtor was a hologram & she smiled more with each question. i don't think she saw me because the open house ended & i was still there, haunting the terrifying openness of it all. room after room after room floating like a helium balloon on its way to sleep. i crawled in the master bed room closet & imagined a house only as big as the space, imagined sleeping in the drawer under the stove where we keep the cookie sheets & pans. i fear that if i leave so will all the strange wonder i got to have. i invite guests to my not-house & i tell them fake stories about a family who isn't home. two kids. one boy. one girl. a wife who likes to bake lemon bars when i'm not home. i don't want these things but i have to lie about them once to make them into moths. back at home in our apartment no one asks were i was as if no time has passed at all. i pace the hallway up & down as if to measure how much room we're allowed to take up. we're all laying in the front lawn of not-our house looking up at not-our tree. deep green. leaves fall from the ceiling.
