yellow lights we drove home last night & every stop light turned yellow for us i've been having trouble giving myself over to poetry lately-- i hesitate to fall all the way in-- to drown idea-- can we just talk here now then & maybe something will come up? so what if there's nothing profound to say about stop lights? what if someone else has said it better? i pressed my forehead to the cool glass of the window as the road twisted & turned like a piece of yarn-- i joke that they should make all roads in one straight line towards where every i have to go-- directly through the mountains-- no meandering-- no room for antique shops to emerge from the soil with their rusty OPEN signs born from condemned heavens-- there were deer in the woods beside us-- their eyes flickering like silver dollars-- do they know the roads or are they surprised every time a station wagon like yours crawls by in the night-- high beams cutting shadows from trees-- i think of all the times i drove home alone through thickets of trees-- i fantasized about the car breaking down even though i told everyone that i would be terribly anxious if it did-- i think we all like small catastrophes-- you say you've never hit an animal & i think about that one time driving home from my aunt's house for thanksgiving when i hit a ground hog pulled over on the side of the road to see if somehow it had lived-- i didn't cry but i backed away slowly & drove home without talking to anyone i don't think i said much last night letting myself lilt in & out of your conversations i smiled & imagined myself as a green minnow net or maybe the egret we saw on the way there-- tall celery stick legs dipped in the brook-- i watch cars go by-- pose for them & watch the humans as they press faces to windows & beam-- i have nothing to do with destinations or rubber tires-- my neck is a serpenting path to Bethlehem-- the one made of steel if i were to be put in charge of making new roads i would score the earth like the squares on my red & black flannel-- a perfect grid a quilt-- our car would be a single checker moving space by space by space-- slowly through a yellow light-- we didn't stop once-- celestial gold glint in the rear view mirrors-- oh maybe there it is-- the profound thing i was looking for-- i tell you how the only thing i learned in statistics class is that the randomness of every stop light is all it's own-- each pass the same chance of any color--
04/01
i bought a watch men buy watches, yes? that's what we do to accessorize-- brown leather & the metal buckle-- i wear mine with two notches left-- it's almost too tight but i think it's the sort of thing you just have to get used to-- my father never wore a watch & it makes me wonder how he knew what time it was when we would go to bowers park-- after it rained the creek would overflow & make mucky the forest floor-- tadpole eggs stared up at us-- handfuls of irises-- embryos blinking-- i had blue waterproof sandals-- the type with velcro & dad wore his grass stained new balance we left when the sun got orange enough to be a clementine-- were our bodies sundials? our shadows the hands of some master clock like the white headed tower looming over kutztown chiming fickle-ly on the hour & sometimes the half-- the clock in the dashboard of the jeep rebelled against time for as long as i can remember a gold pocket watch in the glove box occasionally tethered us to the rest of the world-- i don't think he ever checked it-- he taught me how to skip stones-- each rock smooth & cool ticking as they dropped beneath the surface-- that's what i've noticed most about wearing a watch i don't always hear it but driving home yesterday at a stop light i became aware of it-- finger nails drumming car windows-- teeth chewing themselves-- the noise coming in & out of focus-- my wrist made ferris wheel-- there we sit in the grand stands at fair in august waiting for fireworks-- paper wrist bands as handcuffs-- my dad asked someone near by for the time 9:27pm they would start any minute now-- i practice checking my wrist-- it's performative-- i'm saying look-- i have watch now-- does that make me a man? do the watches all speak to each other then? leaving some clocks behind-- is your body a few minutes fast? a language of clicking tongues Morris Code of Morris Code-- do they tell stories of us then? about a girl-boy in at a stop light trying to understand their language a boy in a bathroom mirror practicing how to check his watch-- i smirk at the thought of my father wearing one he washes his hands too much of paint-- what kind of man wears a watch? not just any watch but a brown watch with a bold dazed face from the clearance section at target my cheek bones have minute hands-- each eye-lid ticking-- do you speak time? where do you keep your sundials? the creek at Bowers floods in april & the frogs will tell stories of us-- their children observing us blinking as sun peels itself citrus
03/31
invisibility cloaks & where to find them 1. sleepover-wrapped ourselves in green comforters-- closed eyes & fumbled in nightlight fire-- i'm not sure why we'd shut our eyes but it seemed to enhance the idea that we had found invisibility-- & when i'd open mine i watched you-- arms stretched out-- feeling for the legs of my bunk bed-- 2. what we move when we think we're alone with our body-- 2. alone in my room i ran my hand along the carpet in search of the back of an earring & discovered an unsee-able texture 3. closed my eyes & pulled the clothe like a plastic bag over my head 3. the mirrors in the house fogged over & i re-arranged my brother's quarter collection-- stealing the ones from Georgia to devour the big juicy silver peach 4. when was the first time you found an invisibility cloak? 4. was it underneath a greening heads-up penny? did you keep it in your pencil case? 5. did you stay up past your bedtime to see what adults watch on tv at night? 5. dark screen & my mother's shiny pink knitting needles clicking like finger nails on the windows 6. recess under the oak tree the boys played football with the round rubber playground ball & the girls hung upside down on the jungle gym-- 6. i crouched--knees in dirt unfurled the cloak-- pulled over my shoulders a stick to dig in the earth-- wrote my name to remind myself that there was a body left somewhere for me even 7. i began to use it more frequently without intention kept it folded in the top of my desk 7. during silent reading time i'd slip it one & pace the single yellow-tile hallway outside class examining teachers open their packed lunches lowfat yogurts & lean cuisines-- smell of coffee grains from the grey trash bin-- 8. i'd go to the bathroom remove the cloak to stand in the mirror-- trace the lines of my training bra beneath my shirt-- re-dress-- eyeing myself as i became comfortable & blank 8. i thought of my uncle's grey artist's erasers-- the ones you can mold into different shapes-- i rubbed them on my skin till it turned red 8. ambled invisibly into the boys-- the urinals like space pods the soap was sterile & pink like ours i washed my hands-- 9. my younger brother noticed the disappearing one afternoon asked if he could try i didn't want him to feel snared like i did kept it in my pillowcase & we balanced on the railroad tracks that dusk-- he asked if the trains ever come through kutztown anymore 10. growing up is probably best done without invisibility 10. i've made up memories to fill in the gaps drawn in crayon & ball point pen on the roots of the oak tree 10. next time you sleepover you will tell me that you wear wire bras i took mine off in your bathroom mirror time lapsed & the sun dipped & rose-- dipped & rose like a round corn chip in fresh salsa cilantro also smells like strong rain 11. in 7th grade we dissected starfish & afterwards i lost control slipped into the cloak-- i was thinking of how the mouth of the star fish is at the center-- all debris moving inward-- i ended up in the dark of the kiln room-- i think the art teacher knew i hide there the beaded door rustled as she flicked off the light & headed home 12. let me show you how to be unobserved 13. close your eyes & wait for the sensation of clothe over your face-- the embalming fluid will taste like cilantro or rain 14. in the 10th grade my mother caught me late at night disappearing i was supposed to have been better we cried on the carpet of my bed room in the shadow of my bunk bed's skinny thighs-- used each other like microphones-- i don't remember what she said to me 15. it is best done with a friend-- do you trust me? 16. trust has the texture of brown paper napkins like ones in public bathrooms or Chick-fil-a 17. there are so many invisibilities here on the floor of this bedroom-- 17. wrap yourself in a comforter what would you do if your skin was invisible? 17. all that blood salsa red as the tumbling sun 18. empty the mirrors 19. don't let them know 20. get older 21. trace the railroad tracks under your shirt 21. call your brother but don't let him know you have skin
03/30
continuity your mother used to say that you should be a continuity editor someone who notices slight changes between clips of the movie-- the coke bottle shifted to the left-- the baseball hat turned backwards-- laying in your bed in the flicker of television you'd pause the movie & point out the amending position of the sun-- you'd pause me as i stood up & searched the carpet for my bras & my t-shirt-- you'd rewind me back under covers where you'd stand on my freckles like stepping stones-- loving you was so much like making a movie-- calling "cut" the walls were made of camera lenses continuity: meaning the unbroken & consistent existence i don't wear dresses anymore & i don't eat greek yogurt like i used to on your porch with the espresso spoons-- i don't read the bible & i don't want to move to the city-- do you still want to by a house on the shore in Maine? i see the foundations slipping into the rocky shore like glaciers-- i won't ask you to be a continuous person-- this time i'm the one with the video-- the one with the rewind button-- i put your clothing back on only your shirt is inside out-- i kiss you like the back of my hand-- this is for all the times you opened my mouth to pull out the film-- peering at each frame & combing for a scheme for me-- did you notice when i counted calories on my phone calculator? did you you know i set timers so that i would be home before ten? stepping in the squeaky white screen door shoelaces undone-- i want to tell you that i've spent too many nights in dark rooms-- peeling pictures out of my skin & developing them into memories-- as if i could ever hold us still do you remember when i said i wanted children? when i said i wanted to be a doctor & slip into your last name-- that i wanted to write romance novels with it? i peel apart your name letter by letter like the lobes of a clementine-- i don't know if i loved you but over a period of time we became irreconcilable bodies-- cameras gaping with their red record buttons-- you peel my bra like the label of a coke bottle
03/29
salt lamps your mother bought pink himalayan salt lamps for your house-- ones for every corner-- glowing soft & magenta in the dusk of august she explained to us that the salt was for cleansing-- for attracting all the toxins & purifying our bodies were we in need of decontamination? did the lamps strip us of our negative ions? did i lose part of myself-- my own sweet infections-- alone in our pajamas you touched the surface & licked your fingers i did the same bitter salt we kissed each other too much-- sodium mouthed-- what was it that made out skin pink? was it the light of your mother's salt lamps? trace hints of magnesium, potassium, and zinc in our bones-- your shoulders becoming mountains in the haunting blush of light-- we left the lamp on as we fell asleep because i was still young enough to be afraid of the dark-- & in the night the salt lamp grew-- yearning home among grander mountains than us-- stretching out shadows in the hope of making us taller & full of snow-- aching to press into the sky-- did the rocks want to return? did they remember what it was like to be massive & immovable? & then there we were children with pollution in our hair from the fire pit in the yard-- i woke up to see you growing-- becoming jagged & pinnacle-- your skin became a fear of mine-- your lips cracked like the earth's crust-- i would wake up to watch watch you change as you slept to watch myself fail to produce summits i remember the last time i kissed you & it meant something you were asleep & the salt lamps were making us clean-- can we be pure again? on the horizon as the sun went down i noticed the man who harvests them-- course hands digging into himalayan throats-- blood pink on underneath his finger nails as he works does he feel like a killer? does he work for some greater moral good-- the project of holier young skin-- the air we breathe became magenta & gold-- the stars themselves wanted in live in your bed with us-- there was no amount of pink mountains that could unburden me i watched your shadows kissed your forehead & your eyes flickered you tasted like salt
03/28
& the pea i arrived on a dark & stormy night to me rain always smells like the soft skin of toads was i an amphibian before arriving here? was i a skink or a salamander-- orange & red i slipped between your fingers & down the grates in the side walk where all water goes to gossip-- i rang the door bell to the house in fleetwood-- the one by the railroad tracks crouched in the tanning factory's shadow dripping like a stalactite my mother & father opened the front door to find a girl soaked to her skeleton-- wet feet on hard wood floor it is well known that princesses come into the world like this-- ominous & un-announced did they pray as they found me dry clothing? did they ask god what they would do with so sudden a human-- as i grew up i often would wake up through the night-- sat at the end of the bed & talked to the red digital clock-- asking for more bed time stories-- i did not notice growing up-- the house shedding it's walls & regrowing on main street-- when the other girls would play princess at recess i never knew which one i'd want to be because i thought it would give me away-- i strolled off & climbed the oak trees shadow trunks-- i'd keep the bruises to myself like all girls do-- long sleeves & scarves-- women's bodies are made for hide & go seek go seek the world beneath all the world's mattresses where no one will hear your sleeping this is (of course) the story of princesses & peas canned peas eaten with a metal soup spoon from the cupboard this is for our fruit cocktail souls-- picking out the cherries-- was i born from metal or rain? of bunk beds & boys who conquer them-- i used to bruise so easily-- alarm clocks grabbing my forearms with fingernails-- i'd get up at 4:05am it was compulsive-- a kind of rent paid for being a princess what are you doing sitting so still in that body? cutting rows of corn into the wallpaper-- skin coming apart like gills-- i learned to breathe from my wrists-- lifted the mattresses to add more & more peas-- this is punishment for the body-- this is how we learn to sleep in the minefield-- sometimes when you kiss me i bruise & i don't tell you i stare at the alien purple skin in the dim light of my bedroom-- nebulas erroding under my flesh & i pour a can of peas out into my hand-- slide each one carefully beneath the sheets-- oh bruise me more-- princess with me-- i want to be sleepless
03/27
embryology: i told you that sometimes when i'm depressed i curl up on the floor & imagine myself dissolving in bed as my phone vibrated me into morning i fantasized about becoming embryonic-- tucked my knees into my chest & felt the membranes form a sack around me there was this poster on the wall in our 5th grade class room when we raised chickens it had all the stages of development the bird would go through in the egg-- we turned the eggs-- he had heat lamps-- some of them never hatched & i felt guilty-- i watched my mother crack an egg on the side of a cast iron pan-- how close was i to a chicken? is there time to go back? i'm thinking of all of these embryos like plastic toys in those gumball machines-- god puts in a quarter & we fall out-- a few feet away they bag groceries & my brother asks for another quarter for skittles & we tumble into our egg shells or mothers or fathers or into the river sticks where all the empty babies go to wait to be reborn-- i like hot showers that make my skin throb-- shout red-- i like to close my eyes & put my fingers against membrane walls-- throb-- i want to be smaller-- to go backwards until the water run away with me as simple as a dead leaf-- how many chromosomes was i away from being born with feathers? would you have loved me? skinny legs & yellowish down? under the heat lamp-- turn me turn me egg tooth in my forehead-- the river is all our mothers & our fathers are, as always, fishermen-- i wanted to tell you that sometimes sadness is embryology-- & you say that you want to sleep & sleep & sleep-- i won't wake you up-- let me turn you-- i'll make sure that you hatch-- & when i was in fifth grade i saw god come in the window & pick up the soul-less eggs-- put them in his pockets like quarters for the gumball machine-- he put his finger to his lips & whispered hush
03/26
palm sunday you tell me that there's people who make their whole living off of growing palms for palm sunday & orthodox palm sunday the two days are only a week apart but apparently the orthodox follow a different calendar it would be fun to try another calendar for a year or so-- to pretend that we could have christmas in august when everyone needs a god to arrive-- the sweating nativity-- easter eggs scattered in the gnat-like snow of january-- our new years born plastic & pink i looked it up & you were right about the men with great big knives down in florida-- slicing off stacks of palm leaves just for that one sunday hoisting their boys on their shoulders-- he says "we do the best we can for jesus christ" & the palms lay like lay themselves down like the bones of priests in catacombs-- like eye lashes-- this article i read said jesus came into jerusalem triumphantly but i like to think of him as scared-- gripping the hairs on a donkey's back-- & then he sees the palms-- the people laying down their clothes-- the palms falling like snow his father had only told him stories about-- did he know he would someday be born in the snow? i imagine it was the palms that got him ready to die-- i know if i were going to get crucified that i'd want some sort of display-- the gathering space at saint mary's church where 8 years old sister kathleen peels off a branch for me-- i took my brother's so that i could play with two as jesus himself opened the big wooden doors of the church-- monsignor clearing his throat to read from the book of matthew as i fixated on the palms-- attempting to weave a cross but mostly just twisting the sinews of the plant-- you tell me that you're not sure why people are catholic if they don't like going to mass & i re-assure you that i'm not catholic even though i can say to some degree that i do actually like going to mass-- it's not the actual words-- it's the comfort of repetition-- the knowledge that there will be one day every year where they hand us palms at the door-- maybe that my calling-- down in the south packing palm leaves to ship across the country-- i take off my shirt-- sit down for a second as the sun lilts like a Eucharist host-- bless myself & open my mouth to receive it-- burning as it drips down my throat-- i cut another sack of leaves-- oh, did you hear? jesus is arriving on the back of a donkey-- arriving arriving always arriving
03/25
autotomy they cut down the oak trees at that house on 9th avenue they were empty soul-ed for awhile now-- wincing at a violent wind & dropping arms sometimes like geckos drop their tails out of fear-- that's called autotomy-- the act of self-amputation which i think is ironic because the word looks like autonomy (meaning: agency/control/ deciding when & where you fall apart) & in the front lawn they must have taken apart the tree in segments-- the torso strewn in modest blocks & to me (the passer by) the oaks appears to have been startled & come apart-- what could frighten a tree like that? she was old so maybe it was just a car horn or the bark of one of those terrier dogs with scruffy hair at the nearby park-- i'm somewhat comforted though by the quietness of her body there-- no grand finale-- no "timber!!!" no thud onto the muddy earth-- i think of the great big evergreen trees that used to lean on each other's shoulder in the front lawn of the house on noble street-- their stumps now fading into the grass-- 9 years old i didn't get to see them being cut down but i feel better to imagine them like that oak tree-- their elbows & femurs & craniums & tongues all piled up ready to be set out with the blue trash cans-- if i had a tail like the skink or a tuatara i probably wouldn't keep it along-- simple things terrify me-- startle me even-- like the ghosts of trees-- monstrous as they reach tentacles in the window to frighten me-- rippling earth their thighs still under the ground-- i lose each limb involuntarily-- knuckle by knuckle the wood of my skin-- bark snapping-- catching hair in electric wires-- the morning doves & blue birds will scatter to tell the cardinals about what has happened to the girl who used to live on noble street-- her ghost calves deep in the springtime soil-- i feel the toads burrowed & still at rest-- i felt the urge to collect the fragments-- picking up all the tails of lizards that were ditched out of fear-- it is a defense mechanism i suppose to let go of the piece of your body they will use to devour you whole-- i'll plant an evergreen tree for every limb let go
03/24
the last white rhino did you sit in your wheel chair by the glass windows like my grandmother did when she was dying? your massive body a kind of nation-- a great stone like the rock the apostles found moved from in front of the cave when Jesus climbed into heaven & left his blood-stained white shroud there was the room full of puzzles at the Lutheran home-- boxes on the shelf-- did he attempt to make puzzles? picking up each piece in his great flat feet as the 2 women rhinos scoffed at his clumsiness that came with age-- 45 years old his own horn getting heavy to lift-- he would rest his head on the dirt like home my grandmother laid back in the white hospital-like beds-- curled up like a cashew-- he knew he was dying when he began to feel small-- when the earth no longer trembled beneath him-- he took to searching for pianos-- my grandmother sitting with a quilt to cover her lap in the make-shift living room of the old people home-- the piano there was mostly vacant but on occasion a young man in a blue blazer came to practice church hymns-- did she still believe in god? did the rhino? did he make rosary beads of the dusty stones of the reservation? or did he give up-- telling the women that he believed god was as fickle as the rain-- that god was the cruel increasing forces of gravity on his asteroid body-- they began to whisper-- speak in hushed voices around him-- we'd have to shout for my grandmother to hear us-- i always wondered if she heard when we'd talk about her-- if she was just pretending to be near deaf-- we got her hearing aids but near the end she wanted them out-- i can understand not wanting to hear the hear the cacophony of the alzheimer's floor-- she sat back-- eyes half closed-- blinking only every so often-- the rhinoceros was determined not to kneel-- his eight-ball sized eyes-- the solar systems in them-- the other white rhinos his wife & his daughter saw the humans approaching in their green jeep they knew it meant death-- death is seldom a green color-- my grandmother seemed to die several times before she went-- before the stone was moved-- was there a hint of green? maybe an african violet on a windowsill or a fern in the hospital lobby? i wouldn't know because the last time i saw her was in the dusky light of the puzzle room-- he fell like a spilled bowl of apples-- bruising on the savannah-- did he worry about his blood lines? his tiny species made of granite counter tops & raucous-- the humans laid hands on him like the stump of a great baobab tree-- did you leave behind a white shroud? or just a pattern of foot prints across the Kenyan earth?
