neon tetra

i am a plastic bag of
neon tetra

10 or 12 all 
darting between 
each other

glass house world

this is the car ride
home from the pet store

waiting on
the knees of bigger
humans

a little girl with
freckles scattered
like strawberry seeds
in her cheeks

she has thick fingers
that rings never fit on

walking in the grass 
on the way home last night
there was just one
dandelion

white headed 

my great sitting
a row in front of us 
at church

i blow her head 
to make a wish but not
all her hair comes off

& the remaining 
seeds i peel off with my
thumb & index finger
before crossing
main street

a sudden loss of gravity

& she's un-doing
the neck of the plastic bag 

what is the difference
between clear air & water?

the sky making soup
of itself

condensed in the rear view 
mirror with chicken & stars

i think dandelions 
were made so that you
can't ever really blow
off all the seeds

emptying my lungs

plastic bags in my chest
to be filled with more
goldfish

i liked my pet neon tetras
because they glowed
like the sign in
the beer store window

where my father &
i listened to each other
like bottle caps

i am dispersing

swimming out the window
of the car as it 
turns into glass on
the high way

break green bottle
on asphalt & don't
wear bare feet anymore

blue light hips
like cop car sirens
only intended on
floating

i can't keep track of
myself anymore

all my gossamer fins

i'm visited by
the ghosts of every dandelion 
seed i ever exhaled

they ask why they were
born & if they were
mistakes 

& i tell them that
i don't think that 
there is such a thing
as good intentions

i kneel with
them to plant myself

the earth is cool
& still getting over 
january

fish eyes freezing
like grapes 

like eight balls rolling

down the pavement 

oh she's growing
a face of berries 

breaking the skin 

she'll probably attract
flies if not boys [even worse]

i tell the dandelions
that i don't actually
remember what i wished for

& they weepy thunder

we're back at our
house on noble street
as a storm breaks 

& we all rush upstairs 
to close the windows 
in all the rooms before
the rain fills the house
like a plastic bag

those aren't raindrops 

those are the bodies
of neon tetra

a eerie glow congregating 
against the mesh screens

i step out onto
the porch to find that
everything is
in fact water

disseminating 

fingers

break off like 
kit kats 

bones clattering 
on the cement 

snapped wind chimes

all that's left of
me is swimming 
between lightning bolts
& dandelion seeds

don't try to catch me

fill the bag with
water at the window

find new fish &
give them the same names

loch ness is
the bath tube at my parent's house

my belly protruding
from the water like a brush
covered island

i was seven the first time
i discovered the tiny men 
in suites sitting
on the shoreline 
cameras slung around
their necks 
taking pictures

they pointed in awe
at the size of my elbows 
my giant-squid eyes
blinking away soap suds

i submerged my
whole body to get away
from them

i could hear 
billy brushing his
teeth at the sink

faucet squeak

he stood on his tip-toes
to lean in closer to the mirror 

& i sank deeper & deeper 
into the muck & stones

there was no kelp 
or sea grass 
to conceal a body 
as big as mine was 

the loch ghostily
empty-- a vacant womb 

all monsters are in someway
man-made

even if it is making
ourselves 

i hoped 
the real loch ness
creature would meet me

her long neck a
cat's cradle string 
tied to my bunk bed post

i found myself
tangled in her

my own skeleton
re-arranging itself 

bones smooth &
coated in algae
 
a prehistoric shadow

above the water my
brother called 
something 

probably my name 

only i had lost all 
words under stones

feeling around 

hands becoming mythos

i never saw her

but in the distance
i felt a body aching 
to be proven

isn't that what we
all want?

if asked for evidence
i would take everyone
to the bath tub
& ask them how
far down it goes

at the bottom of
the loch i searched until
i finally touched 
the smooth rubber 
hips of the drain 

yanked free

all the water
in the world down
our throats

do you drink soap?

did she leave with
the water?

safe somewhere
rushing under kutztown 
when it thunder pours & 
the run-off thrashes 
down storm drains 

there's no more loch ness

i took it with me

when i moved 

& now i only take showers

i search for empty tubs
to lay in

plastic bag

out the car window 
plastic shopping bags 
take refuge 
in the bare-bone 
bushes 

making ghosts trees

do highway spirits
use them like
hotel rooms?

pulled over their
heads like bonnets

my grandmother
always put a plastic
bag over her hair 
when it rained so
that she the water
wouldn't mess up
her perm

her ghosts reaches 
from behind the storm gates

her thin wrists
& red finger nails

some of the ghosts 
tie the bags
around their neck 

inhale until the 
bags get sucked down 
into their lungs

i make myself
new lungs out of them
when my old ones run 
out of air

punctured by red finger nails

she was never gentle

when i was younger
& unpacking groceries 
my mom told me that
you can suffocate

if you're not careful 
with shopping bags

strangling down
a throat

alone on the living
room carpet i tested
the theory

cautiously exploring
the inside
of a shopping bag 

the ceiling light
dull & muted from 
the inside

breathing slow
& measured 

inhabiting ghost skin

crinkling in 
the torrents of passing
tractor trailers

the highway is 
a homeland where they
all feel called to return 

is this my ghost
looking for a bedroom?

shimming & tearing 
themselves around street signs 

the knuckles of trees

i feel myself
becoming one of them 

opaque white flesh

eyes ground in under
the heels of tail lights

under my grandmother's
pink & green church shoes

aimless with their eyes
crushed like grapes

fumbling for each other's

spectral bodies

rustling translucent leaves

we're just finding trees to
hold us

bags around wrists 

my mother bringing in
the groceries & setting
them on the red speckled
kitchen floor

a storm cloud made entirely
of wind 
& our bones swishing outside

open the car window 
i want to pass through

fist of mouth

ghosts growing angry
with not enough room 
to make skeletons of me

so many in one bag

pulling in every direction
we didn't know we had

i want a body of my own

is this possession or 
prayerbook?

eating plastic from
the floor of the living room
when my mother catches me

walmart blue bags
& yellow from giant food mart

i'll let 
the highway have
it's say about me 

i figured if i didn't
eat for long enough
i could reduce myself into
a legend

what do myths like
us have mouths for?

i open mine sometimes
but only for kissing 

tongue slid beneath stone
beneath wet stone

it rains behind 
Hoffman's ice cream parlor
& we are the neon-lit porches

i found myself 
on nights like
this resting on my
back in the cool cave 
floor of my own ribs

where the fish have
no eyes to see us

are you this kind
of hungry?

when i was growing
up sometimes we fasted 
for god

fridays in lent

now i wonder
if we can learn to feed ourselves 

if maybe we can take
our realness back 

un-blur the skin

i don't want to always
wake up on
the old cellars of
the ammunitions factory silos 

gunpowder on our lips

make sugar out
of soot

lingering in the alley
behind the ice cream parlor
in the brisk march downpour

our coarse hair stuck
to our skin

do you think it
would be better if
we had the
monstrous teeth they
say we do?

mine are crooked
tongue over stone over stone

if we starve ourselves 
long enough will
they believe that we
mean no harm?

that these creatures
have yet to learn 
how to eat

the waitress with
the blonde pony-tail 
takes the trash out
at 8:47 on the dot
almost every night

we'll wait then 

safe in a shadow

it's a thursday

do you still keep track
of days of the week?

i do but only
because i like thursdays

the dumpster is green

help me bite open
these trash bags

there's bound to
be an ice cream dish
only half-melted

aurora borealis 

you said that that
northern lights are 
better in photographs 

that in a picture 
they can capture all the
fractures & ribbons 
of light

i've always wanted
to see them

i feel like that's what
you're supposed to say 

you're supposed
to have always dreamed
in green & pinks hues
meandering through
navy blue sky

is that the foot print
of angles?

god's exit wounds?

the memory 
of blood evaporated--
entering orbit

when we sat on the rocky
beach in maine 
you told me that sometimes
they come down that far-- 

that sometimes
you can see them on
the right clear sky evening

& we leaned on each other's
shoulders

boulder on boulder

the sky's birth marks

never showed themselves
so you burst the blood vessels
on my neck to show
me what aurora borealis 
is supposed to look like

like scars turned supernatural

like the memory of
fish through water

backstroke across the moon

i guess i've never
seen them

do photographs count?

what else is better
in photographs?

most recollections 
are best when secured
in picture frames 

where they can't get away

i'm watching 
me & you turn into 
watercolor hemorrhages

into green-purple blush

into celestial stretch marks

into a streamer

ribbons tying back the ghost
of our long brown hairs

tuck me behind your ear
like a daffodil 

travel farther north
in your silver toyota

the one we where
we kissed in the back seat
in your uncle's parking lot

drive all night 
till you cross
the boarder into 
Canada 

till there's nothing but
forest & asphalt road

is this my leg hair
or the back of
your knuckles?

get out & 
search for them

take thousands of
pictures even if the sky
seems tired & 
wanting to be left alone

you took 
a picture of me
naked at the foot of 
the bed
on that night after
we tired to pry 
colors from above
the black ocean water

i wonder if you still have it

i wonder if there's 
northern lights written
into my body

am i better now
in a photograph?

collapse of the Silver Bridge 
& the death of 46 
how did the omen stitch
itself into your ribs?

& the death of 46
in your body black as pitch 
itself into your ribs?
save bodies in the mountain ridge

in your body black as pitch 
you wanted to warn them
save bodies in the mountain ridge
oh there's fire in bethlehem

you wanted to warm them
how did the omen stitch
oh there's fire in bethlehem
collapse of the Silver Bridge 

Mothman sightings all seemed to culminate in the collapse 
of The Silver Bridge on December 15th 1967. 
Many similar cryptids and creatures have been seen worldwide. 
& seem to be heralds of impending disasters.

lighters 

he liked to collect 
lights he found on the ground

tilting them to
check if there
was any fluid left

we balanced flames on
our thumbs

oh tongue of fire 
i want to be left alone
i want to understand
no language at all

these are all the 
unlit cigarettes we
would have had if we 
would have smoked 

but instead he collected
lighters for fireworks

rolling my bleached hair
into fuses while
i slept beside him

it was infectious

his desire      for fire

the pit in the backyard
where we burned a
year's worth of calendars

& he asked if he could
pick me up & put me in

yes yes     pls

dead grass began 
to grow from my head

& back then dad put on
his ratty shoes to mow
my head

in the effort to 
destroy any notions of
premarital sex we were having 

if you do "it"
over top of your clothing
it doesn't count 

it's like flicking 
your thumb against the back
of a lighter

putting the wrong end
of the cigarette in your mouth 

he was sometimes 
a first full of gun powder 
funneled down my throat

other times he ran low

i had drank his gasoline 
in the night & left him
with only sparks
underneath his finger nails

oh how desperately 
we tried to burst
each other      into flames

lined them up on
his end table 

all the lights

a blue one
a green one
a clear sky one

a snapped bra 
a purple underwear 
a femur crumpled on
     the wooden bed room floor

pushed up against 
his white walls

what kind of soot smudge?

what kind of yellow teeth
     did we make?

& while he wasn't looking
i practiced with my 
how arm hair for 
kindling

he always wanted me
to       eat more

eat more & would 
use fire as a demonstration 

here this is what a woman's
mouth should do 

here this is what swallowing
feels like

you don't have to want
it you just have to keep
going until there's 
nothing left of both
of us

we made fire then

     that's what we made i think

pull me hair harder

off each limb 
like match sticks from the box

like dead branches

like orange skin 
     get your nails in deep

he had clean fingernails
     for a boy

the kind that where glossy
in the glow of his pink salt lamp

i prayed to lighters

that they would empty 

that they would fast themselves
& turn into husks where
corn had once been 

like me

we boiled cobs & ate
them on his back porch

barefoot & cold cement stone

kernels in our teeth 
parchment yellow

falling out of our skulls 
& smoldering in the lawn 

do i call us lovers?

or flint

how fast would your travel
for want of being known?

to be really seen 
is such a labor 

i too watch headlights 
& pretend they're the eyes
of other monsters

just like me crawling
on all fours in their
noses to the asphalt

when you saw the young couple
did you hope that they might
be your parents?

that maybe you
could be as soft as her
one day

parking their car 
on highway 62's gravel bones
femurs crumbled
under tires

sitting shotgun 
she was the first to see you
as you rose from behind
the tall grass

her mouth opening
without a sound-- the shriek 
lost in some other time

you want to crawl
down her throat & hide there
where she'll never
ever have to see you 
again 

like you i slipped between
my mother's lips

only she was asleep
& i was ten & knew i should
no longer be scared of
nightlight shadows

i grew thick black hair
in bed-- first across
my calves & then my upper lip

in between my thighs
& across my stomach like
a step-ladder

& when the scream reached
her mouth open like
the barrel of a gun 
the two sped off

i don't blame you for chasing
them-- the newspapers say
they drove faster than
100 mph & still couldn't shake you

your wings pumping 
breath sharp in the raw december air 

you think that maybe
if you could grab them &
hold them still for a moment
that maybe they would see you
& not be so afraid

you gave up when you
saw town-- street lights
dull gold flicker

you didn't want to see what
light would do to your body
so you landed & 
sat by the side of the 
road & practiced making
yourself smaller

sitting in the passenger seat
last week i wanted to 
fly out the window & chase
my father down the turnpike 
until he saw how tall
i really am--

how dark my hair's gotten

make him see me--

stunned in my headlight body

i learned to shave
off all parts of myself 
in a vestibule
of my parent's house

thick hair down
the drain

how do the humans live
so naked?

& when they drove back
they saw you again
waiting for them on
the side of the road

stalking the glint in
their eyes

oh if our eyes could
ever be that white
we would roll them in
the dirt

if we meet i'd like to 
just sit & stare at each other

inspect the details of
our figures that others have ran from

at recess the girls running
to sit under the girl-tree 
& the boys scattering to
the soccer field while
i crouched beneath
the slide & dug up worms

tell me do i have our
mother's eyes?

my father's widow's peak?

do you see me?
do you see me?

if we're looking at each other
we must be real 

even if only for
this moment

mountains

i'm pretty sure
the mountains that shrug
themselves blue 
over there 
*pointing*
are getting taller
since i was a little
girl in a back seat 
being tossed between them
as my mother drove with
two hands on top
of the steering wheel--
on the way home yesterday
we wondered what it
was that makes a mountain
a mountain--
a certain height maybe?
an achievement
of a particular number of trees?
upon looking it up
i've found that they gave
up classifying mountains
(in the US at least)
nothing profitable
about mountains 
especially with all
these damn wild life protections
i sit in the middle
of the back seat on car rides
because i don't mind behind
caught between two other people
but it also means that
i can't rest my head against
the window & think about
what it would be like
to open the door &
roll out--
they're an illusion 
you know?
the mountains--
if i really got out 
they'd only be the size
of stepping stools--
up to me knees maybe
like the little plastic step 
my dad uses to change
light bulbs in the bathroom
if there's no requirement 
for a mountain 
do you think i could
be one then?
see if i sit out 
in the backyard
no
someone else's backyard--
kneeling maybe or 
raising my hands over 
my head--
would they mistake me?
put a plaque at my feet
& name me
mount honeysuckle
mount scabby knee
mount girl-who-cut-her-hair
mount wishing stone
what the difference between
a mountain & a wishing stone?
i'm thinking about the appalachians 
& how they're getting smaller
& if god is whittling them down
so that they can be used
as desk paper weights
or maybe flat enough
to get skipped three times
in the creek before
dunking deep down between
algae & crayfish--
the mountains that we drive
through on the way back 
to kutztown don't have names
& i feel bad for them
because no matter
how much they ache & grow
no one hangs a dog tag from
their neck--
they build bridges &
gazebos by the creeks
but no name--
does the mountain look
up at the clouds &
ask them--
saying-- 
give me a sign as to
what i should call myself 
but the clouds (as usual)
just laugh
that's what they did to
me when i asked--
the clouds are useful for many
things but not for answers
they move too fast--
swarming the faces
of mountains--
these white lacey veils
are the mountains getting
married maybe?
turning grey in their faces
as their marriages 
erode same as their bodies--
oh mountain if you 
promise to love me
i can find you a name
& i will sit at your
base every day until
we both turn to bones--
your limestone skeleton--
my calcium carbonate 
femur & vertabrae
i'll pick  flowers
from behind your ears &
kiss your moss pebble feet--
oh mountain is this what
it's like to be love?
i just want someone like
you-- someone who 
doesn't mind raising one
hand to hold 
the sky up 
when it's your turn--
i'll climb up you & help--
someone whose old trees
could dig their roots
deep into my back--
oh i just want to 
find you in the horizon
the pink-orange of sunsets 
like halos over our heads--
i could stay here
i could stay here 
teach me how to reach
i want to be a mountain 
with you
& when they see me
out the car window 
they'll remember that
i used to occupy back seats 
used to swallow paperweights 
used to skip
stones three times
before they dropped heavy
in the creek water--
can a mountain drown
if it's not careful? 

you screamed the fires
out of the pine barrens
& turn the copper water
to blood

the forest cleaning
herself of you

& you yell for her 
to forgive you for
being born the 13th child 

what of numbers
cursed out of frustration

oh he'll be a devil

my father would
check my head for horns
as a joke

laughing as he ruffled
my brown hair & then
i'd go back to
the bathroom mirror
where i learned to
snip them off
with nail clippers

mishap creatures we are

the stormy nights 
of our birth reenacting
the reluctance of
the forest to let us have names 

who here has named themself?

have you learned by now
that they call you
the jersey devil?

have you made other names?
out of the lichens or
the cinnamon fern or 
the asters you kiss when
you feel alone?

i collected buttercups
from the front yard to 
float in mason jars
for my mother when she
came home in the blue station wagon

we killed our midwives
out of fear

my father sealed the chimney  
& fireplace in our kitchen
so that i wouldn't fly
up out of it
like you did 

forked devil tails
unfurl into the roads
that separate us

is it true then
that we were always like this?

devil-hood red in our blood

the Leeds family
with their demons dormant 
in their blood

if you wander alone
long enough in the forest
you will of course
become the other

was it as deliberate for
you as it has been for me?

did you refuse to
swallow your screams?

letting them stretch
bat-winged between cannon fire
between bushes of
goldenrod 

i walked in the pine barrens
only once 
but i felt your life
throbbing
in the waters

you hid your face 
in the branches

hooves on asphalt 
outside my motel room

i saw your red glowing eyes
& you saw mine 

we traded

what do they know of rubies?

i put my finger to
my lips & told you 
to you not scream 

not here

wipe your feet 

this is night is for us

how many highwaymen
have you eaten?