you will find your river bed voice next year & make your peace with the crayfish next year hair pulled strand by strand from black trash can lips replant them-- you will grow daughters next year burn old photographs--mark forehead with ash she is dead now-- you can visit next year live annual: mouth daffodil ready feel March biting: you've been alive one year eating white hourglass sand--spoon in hand you remember her less clear year to year i blue-dream i'll kiss you into next year your aqua body beneath clouds all year
02/27
knot in sunday school we learned that monks used to make knots in their belts to us as rosary beads-- finger & thumb-- coarse caress-- prayer tangles itself-- in fingers-- in bodies-- a fist to hold god in-- how big are your hands? big enough to tie up god? fishtail braid him-- my mother braided my hair only once: a wicker basket-- carried applies & peaches-- pick me up by the stem-- i imagined myself at school with a brown monk-robe counting hail marys as i balanced on the edge of the playground-- the chain-link fence clanging beneath my canvas shoes-- i wanted to teach my friends how to tie knots-- how to make prayer tangible-- something to hold onto-- i left knots everywhere as if one of them would catch god by the index finger a trap-- i was a girl who set traps-- the draw-strings blinds in the sun room-- my mother's spools of brown wool yarn-- american girl doll hair-- standing alone in the dark sacristy-- white altar server robe-- running fingers through the tassels of the rope wrapped around me-- holding me together-- making my own knots-- me-- a Franciscan monk-- vow of silence tied into my tongue-- opened my mouth to reveal the twisted cables-- gazing into mirror pink lips writhing in red string-- i recalled the shrunken heads in the museum-- dark thick needle cinching skin-- where do you tie up your words? do you send them to god in the form of a knot? i pretended each end of my altar server chord was a head of hair-- a siren-- long brown mythical maned-- i went to work-- tangling the chord beyond recognition-- knots as fists-- pounding on the wooden church doors-- pounding on my own teeth like draw bridges-- fists clutching in the back of my own hair-- there i am perched on at the kitchen table as my mother yanked a brush through the thicket of my hair-- tulip bulbs tangled at the base of my neck-- waiting for march-- cut off their necks before the rain encourages them-- i cut off my own neck-- head poised over the bathroom sink-- blood or milk--? rosary beads round my neck-- my mother said they're no supposed to be a necklace but when i was home alone i wore them anyway-- taking beads between thumbs & index finger-- un-knotting a prayer hail mary hail mary the lord is with thee-- did i catch god with one of those knots? is he still there waiting-- gentle light coming in the sun room windows-- it is always spring--
the idea of a rainbow
I think what scares me most is that what I need to write about won’t fit neatly into a poem—I don’t know what to write after that because usually I would write a poem—
I’ll still try to write something of a poem—
I’m thinking about the image of an earth worm—100-150 segments—each of those little rings contributing to the body’s movement—when I think of the earth worm I imagined that each little segment had a heart all to itself but really the earth worm has approximately five hearts—
I’m thinking of this because I’m trying to take inventory of my segments & how many hearts I have made use of—
I told you this wouldn’t fit into a poem—
& I’m thinking about how much & how long & if I really I loved him—about the summer nights we spent together on a cement porch—barefoot in his backyard—shooting bottle rockets—
oh we had to have known—we had to have known—
When I talk about him I pretend like I’m frustrated—like I’m angry & that I regret him but I don’t think I regret him— I don’t even think I regret the things that hurt me—the manic late-night text messages promising he’d love me forever—stealing my iPhone so I’d give him all my attention—he was all my attention—
I came to Ursinus partially because I wanted to stay close enough for him to drive to me—
Freshman year on my way to 8am Spanish I called him & we’d talk on the way to class & I don’t remember a thing we said—
What would we have to say?
We’d fuck with our clothes on & pretend that that meant we could be virgins—
I’ve said all these things before—the story feels old—like I’m talking about someone else—I say the same lines—I say “abuse can feel so so so so good”
& I start to wonder if the pain is retrospective—
I can’t conjure an emotion for it anymore—
& in another room my heart throbs under a park bench where another boy would rape me—I don’t like to write about it anymore & I don’t really know what that means—I can’t resurrect what I felt like in those moments—I feel clinical towards her—towards her body—I feel like I don’t want that to be my body—she is another body—
& the truth is I haven’t gotten that much better—what with the hoarding cereal boxes in every corner of my dorm room
The compulsion to go to the super market everyday as if I’d go there & see my mother & she’d take me for all I am—she’d be like mother’s who write Huffington Post articles—like mothers who join transgender advocacy groups—I know I ask too much & say too little—
Am I trying hard enough?
I just want to exist—I think I have become so pre-ocupied with existence because several segments ago I wasn’t really quite existing—
I bought a stethoscope recently—I’ve always been fascinated & terrified of them—I have this fear that I’ll hear my own heart stop—I remember being in girl scouts when they taught us to find our friend’s pulses I refused to do it & pretended to hold my own wrist—not pressing hard enough to feel my vein throbbing—
In second grade on the playground I sat beneath the slide & thought I felt my heart stop—I resolved I would stay there that I would keep this information to myself—that if I didn’t tell anyone it would go away—it would start again without encouragement—
I bought a stethoscope recently—completely on impulse—at the counter at CVS & I went back to my dorm—turned off the lights & listened—
Remembered my gym teacher telling us that our heart is about the size of a fist- I made a fist—
I make a fist & I think about sweat dripping from my tangled brown hair—a karate ring—red gloves—helmet—mouth piece—I want that—I want that kind of bruise-pain—that kind of kind of awareness of your skin—
I keep joking that I can’t cry because I started T but I really think that it’s a self-fulfilling prophecy—
I don’t know if I’m becoming a different person or if I’m willing myself into a different person—
That’s not my body—
That’s not my body with the long hair pulled like horse reigns—
I grew up around farms & Mennonites (you know that) & I always thought the horses were going to fall over dead—frothing mouthed in August while climbing the hill approaching town—
I felt like that when he made me fuck him—black blinder on & everything—sweat gushing from every corridor of skin
It was so hot—
I wanted him to—I wanted him to touch me like that—I bought panties—I wanted to be taken apart—as if I could become something worthwhile in the re-assembly—
Often times trans people fight so that people don’t think they’re trans because of abuse but I think sometimes that it wouldn’t be wrong if I were trans because of the abuse—
there are parts of this endeavor that are entirely symbolic—biological—as if I could inject every good memory with my father into my blood—
there are hearts I still beating that I no longer feel I own—
& I am so so so afraid—
It has taken me this long to quote someone else
“When I dare to be powerful—to use my strength in the service of my vision, then it becomes less & less important whether or not I am afraid.”
Audre Lorde wrote & she was dying of cancer—
I also often think that I’m dying of cancer but if I am I would rather not know it—I imagine it inhabiting all the segments—it was always there—
I don’t like to say my astrological sign 1) because I’m scared of the eyes of crustaceans & 2) because the word “cancer” etched in a star formation terrifies me—
I want to say I’m not afraid of change but I’m afraid of whose body this is—
I’m afraid that I’m not the same human who loved him—that whatever love surfaces on my skin will be somehow different—
What is a body without a gender?
What is a body with a different gender?
Do I want to dare to be powerful & if I do what kind of vision does she mean—
I often think about how butterflies see colors that we don’t—I often wonder if sometimes my body is like a color that is only seen by butterflies—
Somewhere lost between grocery receipts—measuring cups & the last morning I pretended to love him—it’s not the hair on my face—the steady drop of my voice like a melting hard candy—it’s the distance—
I’m thinking of the earth worms crawling out when it rains—
My ceiling leaks when it rains—
Have a made this a poem or a promise?
I keep trying to write a graduation speech but what keeps eroding is my own disbelief in self-discovery—
It’s lovely to think of it all like cartography—treasure-mapped—your body written—chest heavy with gold—
I think it’s more like the rainbow—like how you could drive towards it for hours—taking pictures—pulling over on the side of the road—ground still saturated from the rain & still never find its final resting place—
Forever an idea—
That’s me—a forever idea—
never landing—always all these colors—
Even the ones I can’t see
02/26
projectionist you were the projectionist film reels rattle-snaking across the bedroom floor hissing & biting my ankles-- i sat at my desk that night & write 'i love you' on the top of every note-book paper page as if i could make sense of it next etching the words into my forearm with red ball point pen-- lamp light enchanting us into shadow puppets you kissed the shadows out from inside me-- where my ribs clutch bloody & warm white sheet thumb-tac-ed to my back-- facing the wall-- nose touching the base of your neck-- puncture wounds trickling rain onto the carpet-- for you i wanted to be still to make a body worthy of holding pictures-- to watch movies on you sitting there in your boxers-- eating calamari off your fingers-- our ceiling shaking with the earthquakes of our fathers-- their work-boot feet-- their microwave thunder-- we have to hurry-- spit scenery-- clatter of the reel as it flickered across me-- you told me not to turn around-- that your weren't finished viewing & the movie was silent but i could feel it was about us-- about bunk beds collapsing about you daring me to catch the snake as it slipped away & into your closet-- teeth star-glinting-- about you noticing the scales of my knuckles-- me lying & telling you that i wasn't reptilian-- the imagery of us tattooing itself-- slide by slide-- when i asked you to stop you said this was our punishment for trying to escape into another person's body-- that we were going to watch it again & again-- that we were going to watch it until the shadows came back underneath our skin-- until the ball point pen washed out of my forearms-- but the reel turned into a snake-- bit your neck-- & the door to the basement was made of only rib cages interlocked-- my memory of us still hums there-- a white sheet crumpled on the floor-- your projector kneeling-- pouring history from her burnt lips
in your blood
March came & tadpoles laid eggs in your blood pond muck & algae--green nets in your blood your father overflows from a photo-- depression-- gaping gill-less in his blood blue-vein filter throb: you cleaned the fish tank tetras drowning from the salt in your blood when he feeds you, bite off his thick fingers they will say "love of figs" was in your blood hula-hoop-haloed-- you fracture rainbow pastel chalk in the driveway: your dry blood syringe siphoned your magenta girl blood his coast-hanger fingernails in your blood
02/25
hibachi theater of my body on blue fire-- hot oiled & slick-- meet me on the gas-powered griddle-- feet charring-- the wavering rush of flame-- we were tongue voyagers-- teeth tearing tire & asphalt-- when i was ten we discovered a hibachi grill-- mesmerized by the thrill of heat-- clang of spatula & ringing of knives-- slicing yolk into rice-- onion breathing fire-- as i got older i opened my mouth like that-- alone on the stage of my bedroom floor-- mouth burning the curtains-- smoke to the ceiling-- this was so common for me that my father had taken out the fire alarms-- learned to crouch on all fours & wait for the smoke to pass-- everything was hibachi-- & i grew thinner in the wake of salt-- spinning of the egg-- my body a compass of inevitable rupture-- & you watched me-- hungry-- chicken & shrimp snapping at my ankles-- the floor cooking me evenly but in spectacle-- growing up was a hot reverberation-- a series of dinner with napkins in our laps-- take a handful of chopsticks home & use them as fangs-- & i took my mother's knives & practiced on the grill-- the sun to be cracked for the last time-- bouncing on the end of the spatula & the car is in the driveway waiting to drive us to thanksgiving dinner but i'm not ready-- i'm eating communion wafers dipped in oil-- chewing stalks of celery while the home fills with the smell of fried rice & teriyaki-- you claw at my door with forks-- digging into the wood-- my brother with the broken glass of water-- standing in the middle of the kitchen floor-- shards surrounding him-- he won't move-- we left the oven on-- was it you filling my mouth with green tea ice cream-- fat spoonfuls spat & sizzling on the floor door off it's hinge-- you find me on my knees-- becoming a volcano-- eggs suicide smashed all around me a cardinal smacks against the window-- & down stairs glass slices into his heel-- the blood comes from the ceiling-- the origin of the knives is not important but they ring themselves like bells-- the door cuts us-- & i'm safe for now there's no more silverware
02/24
fireplace & fossil breath left us in the form of a storm cloud-- rain coming down in acid & corrosion-- the roof melting-- puddles in the kitchen is this our blood or merely summer's final act of precipitation? we learned death is a kind of weather you & i with our bodies dropped like allosaurus-- our teeth falling out like the points of a crown-- i want to be fossilized-- to be an impression or maybe just a stone-recollection-- i want the next humans who live in our house to use the fireplace-- to collect wood from the christmas trees in the yard burn their arms for smoke-- chimney choking on thunder-- will they come up with names for us? arrange our bones wrong & see dragons looming over us like wooden spoons-- arms crossed-- drinking steam from mugs-- their children scurry in the basement-- they discover your old boxes of green plastic army men & only the eyes of my beanie babies-- i know the fossils won't let us keep our eyes so in the night when they sleep we can sneak away-- use the black stuffed-animal pupils as our own-- & we will wonder how it was that we were seeing with out them-- our sockets aching for color-- we turn to the fire flickering still-- greys & whites & black shadows making prehistory of dining room furniture-- i ask you if you remember when our father hung a clock above the fireplace & never bothered to change it's batteries-- it's face stagnant with the lie of silent time-- we laugh as we imagine the clock licked by flames-- when the family comes back we will lay back down-- lay down like good fossils should but for now in the night we can be cretaceous-- break off pieces of our vertabrae to watch the fire bare her teeth-- hungry as us-- we take turns re-eating our own refracted bones-- taste of sharp chalk or pastels-- we should have used the fireplace long ago before the earth pressed us like rose petals into the speckled kitchen floor-- we hide our eyes beneath the fridge--
02/23
playground i feel you in my jungle gyms-- ache of metal marrow-- gripping to the rungs of my ribs-- the monkey bars & the skeleton slide the staircases to kiss under-- breath of mulch & dew-- you the boy with the tree root legs & me with the sandbox grit between my fingers-- tic-tac-toe on across my chest-- when i was little my arms weren't strong enough for me to swing from bar to bar so my father would hoist me up-- holding my waist while i grasped at femurs-- whose bones were those? did you father hold you up-- waiting for your back to burst open with swam feathered wing-- my body is only a sidewalk away-- two blocks & turn left they tore down the anatomy i grew up in & now only the trees remember what those clavicles were like we all wanted to hang upside down-- the big-kid trick-- hair turning waterfall-- blood beating in temples-- we succeeded in spinning the earth & in first grade when we mulch-searched for pterodactyl fossils someone of us gazing up at the big kids-- our siblings precarious & pendulous-- the threat of their plummet made us pray-- pleading for their safe return to earth & for our arms to someday be strong enough for us to alter gravity-- i stood-- trying to pull myself up alone & wishing my father was there to lift me by my waist-- we buried the carcasses of worms hid stones with too much magic to keep in pockets-- now i feel them throb-- their enchantment lodged under skin-- the children playing vertebrae like black piano keys-- minor scale-- taking off their knees in me-- we wanted the slide to open up somewhere new-- a destination-- so we climbed up & laid on our backs as we slide-- liquefy the clouds & make-blue the ceiling-- as if we could emerge on the surface of mars-- red dirt & dinosaur ghosts-- is that you then? who walked three blocks broke sidewalks like bread & popped the heads off dandelions along the way & found me with my rust & sore flesh-- meet me under the slide where i buried my mouth-- each tooth now fossilized & prehistoric
spider
i wish i could tell him that i trust him-- (the spider on the ceiling of my room) i don't really know what i mean by "trust" just that i feel like he's reliable-- a friend-- his body a handful of apostrophes-- light & timid as eye lashes-- blinking him into existence-- he owns nothing (i assume) no book shelves or pocket watches-- no address for me to mail him a letter-- should i wave? (i don't want to startle him) does he read poems over my shoulder maybe wishing i would turn back the page so he could see again that line about how we were in love like august-- does he read the love as human or does he think of his mother-- her needle-leg silhouette written in the window frame-- he built his web in the far corner above my desk-- a gentle chandelier-- crystals dangling from his eyes-- i wonder if he pays attention to my routines-- maybe he finds comfort in my compulsions-- hum of the microwave at 11:30pm the soft yellow light of the machine-- he imagines it's sun in a box-- turning-- encapsulated dawn-- he wakes to the crinkle of granola wrapper as i sit wiping crumbs from my mouth right before i tie my green shoe laces to run 4 miles-- away from the threat of our bodies-- does he wait for me to return or does he expect it? does he trust me like i trust him? does he notice me glancing up? i sometimes think he might fall-- descend on a strand of silky web does he wonder what my skin feels like? maybe laying awake cradled in white threads-- watching me breath as i sleep-- considering crawling down my throat-- becoming flesh & muscles-- does he wish the love poem was about him & as he sways-- light & feather boned? does he consider leaving? maybe thinking to himself that i would even notice-- knitting in the dim glow of lamps from the parking lot out back-- dreaming of augusts & human love
02/22
forecast i should have checked the weather channel my 7-day heart written by the poets with their forecasts & their warm fronts i wouldn't have guessed myself to be 68 degrees & sunny-- drift of old clouds who never rained-- what kind of winter am i going to be next year? soft meandering of jazz whispers through my windows to remind me that the meteorologists are doing their work my body a site of investigation-- they map me-- precipitation-green across my limbs-- i'm humid & full of storm-- the hurricane they haven't named-- my skin a surface to be read i'm thinking of the times i believed in rain dances-- standing in the gravel driveway with my hands lifted to a grey sky-- or the times i kneeled & prayed for my body to snow & cancel the world out for a bit-- i wished i had a snow machine like the ones at bear creek-- one i could point & wrap us all in quiet-- i forget about the jazz sometimes until a trumpet laughs her way back into my ears & i recall that somewhere the weather channel is observing me-- taking measurements-- their wind vanes roasting on the heads of tall buildings-- gauging my distant breathing-- oh tell me-- next year how hot will i be on the first of september? will my wind speed resist the turn of the planet? will you be there with me? with your soul echoing a 60% chance of cloudburst your sky partly sunny-- burning away it's own skirts with a face full of summer-- you are so unpredictable-- you must give the weathermen quite the time-- i imagine we're all at least a little unforeseen-- in seven days i will be 48 degrees with the haze of graphite heaven murky over my head-- a kind of halo-- whose god is it writing my body into temperature? tell me how hot you used to be when you let august run wild with your skin when january was an ending-- when a scarf tethered you down to earth so as to not be carried away on a gust of childish blizzard turn on the weather channel-- you'll see me there-- asleep in a mist of saxophone-mouthed kisses & fall of piano keys i'll listen for you-- your eyes peering down through the cloud cover at me in my forecasted body-- what kind of weather do you see in me anyway? don't tell me-- i want to be surprised-- but for you i like to think you will be one of those 70 degree days-- the ones where you feel like you should have no where to be-- where you feel like one more step & you'll evaporate-- float grey & tired above
