other ways home

my GPS took me a different
way home--

& by that i mean google maps
was picking out a new
place for me--

after all
these stoplights i would
arrive somewhere--

somewhere un-nameable--

a green doormat & a porch
complete with wind chimes--
the low & empty bamboo type

that sound more like bones 
than bluebird fingers--

the neon laughter of
storefronts found me-- 

windows rolled down--

rain staining me purple--

or was i red in under the 
inevitable blaze of

stoplight after stoplight
after stoplight--

i prayed
dear god,

if i don't reach the 
highway soon i will die

with all this speed limit 
in my fingers--

going to a different
home--

maybe three states over
in a town where
i will become

a mailman or maybe a school
teacher--

your voice is a phone call
ringing-- telling me
how at the end of
the day you pulled the
sheet up over your head

& cried  

oh how i wish the sky 
followed me like it does you--

maybe it's taking me to nebraska 
near where you want 
to go to become a 
franciscan--

i always picture you making
eggs early in the morning 
on a gas stove top--

long brown robe--

i wanted to tell you
about my car windows fogging up--

about how i pressed my
hand in the glass &
imagined this was a submarine

& the coral reef hummed only
as a handful of OPEN signs &
the red glow of cigarette butts
sizzling in the mist--

is this my home now?

with a wreath made of tin-cans
& doorknobs made
of bottle caps--

gravel driveway
& flood waters 

rising up the street--

i don't tell you 
that i'm lost--

or rather i don't tell
you that my GPS is holding my
hand & whispering 

speaking in left turns 
& door frames--

building me a house from 
the celestial material
of this lost august storm--

pouring planets--

jupiters & neptunes--
solid as marbles 
ricocheting off

the hood of my green volvo

i get out of the car
while it's moving

& there's the house
where we grew up

only it's slimmer & 
sits on a different main street

in a small town 
so much  like our own

with neon ghosts
up past their bed times--

are you coming to visit me?

will you love
me when i lose all sense of
addresses?

an episodic sibling--

a hand pressed in the fog 
of you car window--

hollow bamboo femurs--

don't tell anyone else
where i've gone--

trust the GPS angels

& trust the god of neon &
fried eggs

it's past your bed time

& every house in the world
is lit only by the dim glow
inside the door of the fridge--

how mischievous of us

let's go driving without
headlights--

dark down through 
the corn fields

where the roads lose 
each other-- play tag with
their own corners--

pass the little 
brick school house 
waiting patiently to be rung
like a bell--

do you hear the wind chimes 
becoming material--

the sound of a star brushing
up against it's sibling--

do your constellations 
ever touch?

i'll steal mother's yarn
from the basket at the 
kitchen table--

we'll make necklaces--

the wooden bead
planets-- the pendant moon--

around your neck--

it's past your bedtime 
so anything can happen--

for all god knows 

you are laying-- cheek pressed
to pillow--

did you tuck your body in
before you left?

like a stone dropped 
from the window

crack your geodes
like eggs-- crystals
in the cast iron pan

& town is awake 
only in the alley ways

stretching longer &
longer-- 

you may never emerge--

you may wake up a shadow 

this was your fault
because it is of course
past your bed time--

what will the angels do 
with the dreams you were
supposed to make?

they're disappointed in
us & our rascal bodies--

i like to be disobedient--

make knots in the necks
of street lights--

peel up the double yellow
lines of main street--

woven together to play
cats cradle--

brother this is how
to make the eiffel tower
& the witch's broom--

a hammock in your hands to
sleep in--

but no we're not sleep yet--

we have to stay awake

i don't want to forget you
& all your corn husk hair--

your angular turns--

this gravel road is full
of crystals

they taste like rock candy--

sweetness of stars
for breakfast--

promise me you'll come back 
to the alley when it's done
stretching--

meet me there & spray paint
your name on the dumpster--

black paint--

this is so you won't
forget what i called you
when you find your bedtime--

when you wake up & 
the sun is warm on your face--
planting freckles--

the angels-- displeased--
are coming back to clean 
up our messes with 

soapy dish rags & their
white robes--

they take up each by the hand--

walking us back up noble
street to our house where
the mailbox is open--

climb inside--

i'll come back for
you in the morning

after i read your name

you-- a letter
i could kiss-- lips
envelope sealed--

our bedtimes long overdue

i wanted to write 
a poem about something
important like school shootings
& here i am stalling to find
the words to tell you that today
i am not really sure
whether or not i succeeded in
willing myself into existence--
so much like bullet-- i want
to make that a metaphor but 
this poem has been written
too soon after someone's gun
has fired-- but there i am 
a bullet & there's blood
because of course there's blood
& my car has been over-heating--
i watch the little temperature 
gauge climbing as i reach the
first stop light on
the way out of town--
i picture the hood busting
into flames-- am i how
comets are born? no this is a bullet--
& i'm not scared of comets
but i'm scared that my car 
will break & i won't be 
able to drive to see you 
again & all the stop lights
will go dark & we'll have
to fend for ourselves--
your mouth a headlight
to make my shadow in-- it's
ash wednesday & everyone's got
those crosses on their foreheads
& in my room i grow envious
of the sky for being able
to rain-- what does this
have to do with bullets or fire?
& i'm terrified of
pot holes-- thinking
one might lead precariously 
into the barrel of a gun--
cocked & loaded-- hot engine--
i think of snapping my
steering wheel in two-- 
i'm angry & that terrifies me--
it's frustrating because i don't
have a metaphor for 
what i wanted to be today--
i hope my priest doesn't 
pray for me-- or notice my absence--
i altar served strictly
for the proximity to candles--
to comet-- to the prophecy of
this bullet-- i promised that
wouldn't be the metaphor
& i lied-- lied-- like 
a palm leaf for us 
to burn into ash-- 
that shouldn't be the metaphor--
what with the school shootings
& all & i've only ever
held a gun once-- i've never really
felt it kick in my hands--
metal father womb--
oh are these hormones a kind of
bullet or is it today? 
is this how we become ash?
is this the priest's chapped
wrinkled hand on my forehead--
reaching from the depths
of a pothole-- oh there--
there is hell & it's crumbly
& it has no steering wheel--
i pray to my green volvo 
at night-- for her bones &
her strep throat promises-- 
i tell her i need to drive
to see you-- 
incoming-- ashes wiped
on the back of my hand--
oh & i forgot about the blood--
the rain is of course jealous
of all this bleeding--
of all this washing & 
singeing & testosterone--
& there was a gun used--
blood or stop light--
needle in the thigh of the
comet-- at my desk
trying to coax the violence
back out of my blood--
oh sleep heavy tonight--
the car hood is warm--
today i might have
only passed by but tomorrow
i say to myself as i roll up
my windows--
fogging from my own heat--
i say tomorrow the 
stop lights will be back
& will sit there & 
wait for the comet to back around 

surface of the moon & clenched daffodil fists:
i'm going home

one of those naked places--

the surface of the moon--

let me show you my spaceship--
i parked it in the garage

next to broken 
snapped hula-hoops 
& deflated basketballs--

this kind of cycle deteriorates
just like what we knew
of the four dead seasons--

beneath the dirt someone has
planted fists for spring

daffodils are clenching 
two knuckles forward--

my father taught me that's
how you punch--

we stand there in the backward 
in my white karate uniform 
as he holds practice boards--

cold march earth--

there is a violence in
being un-hidden--

harvested as her moon-rock
surface

our hometowns have
dangerous orbits--

it's always summer when
i come back--

i hate that i come back--
that there are ghosts of
me somewhere--

the soul of a swing set

she sits--

movie camera in hand--

are you okay with feeling
rural?

sometimes i think
i love the city so much because
there's so many more 
shadows crouch in--

here the sun is a flashlight
held-- staring down my iris--

pupils bursting
into closet doors--

i like to be naked but
not like this--

are they still fixing
the bridge on normal avenue?

phantom first kiss still
looming with dark brown 
hair & a gas station soda cup
in hand--

knuckles grow weeds--

i cut my tongue out
so i can stop saying

i'm going home
i'm going home
i'm going home

i say 

i'm going to the 
surface of the moon
where i was once born 

but that's a lie

home has a haunted driveway
for me--

sews me in the field
when the soil un-thaws--

there i am--

knees tucked into my chest
beneath the gnarly field--

& when the corn grows again 

i will stand there--

maze-like

headlights blinking--
prayer cards blowing like
autumn leaves--

fist opening to 
pick onion grass--

there's no air
here-- no sense of wind--

i have yet to give
up on our third grade promise 
to be an astronaut--

sleepless gravity
written on the sidewalk--

alien

i find my way to main street

where all the shops are closed

but there is of course
shadows in full bloom--

ones deep enough to 
be hidden--

when you find my space ship 
in the open bay of 
the garage 

forgive me--

where are you moving?

what kind of furniture do you have?

is your sadness like a blue arm-chair
or a sofa & are you taking it
with you when you go?

when we moved from the house
on main street we rented 
a U-Haul

image of yellow tropical
fish printed on it's side--

i swam-- bubbling bursting
on the hot june sun--

all the way down in hawaii 
where i was born

between the crests of waves
too big to be remembered--

up for air 
in the back seat of
the blue station wagon--

when you move make sure
you take only the important 
furniture--

take the light bulbs 
out of your lamps--

plant them in the yard
at the new house where
the lawn will be soft 

& ready

i wanted to collect U Haul 
trucks for their pictures--

there's one design with 
a horse-shoe crab-- 
ancient body 

arachnid-like aching 
for a dining room table--

another one wears a rocket
ship & we take off

without the traditional count down--

a violent blast--

i'm thrust into orbit 
& below me the earth is
nothing but an 8 ball--

a marble

i can see my house--
a monopoly board plot--

roll dice in zero 
gravity only

to watch them
drift away-- a new element of
orbit--

i want to rent a moving
van but i'm scared i'll
get a lame one with

a blank side--

i'd even settle for
the image of a canyon
to climb into--

arid & orange-parched--

i don't want to take
anything with me--

i want a smaller body--

portable--

compact-- 

me & you in the back
of a moving van--

jostling around each turn--
our father

the wild driver--

don't ask me where 
i'm moving after graduation--

i'm leaving my desk chair 
& my bed frame

like i said 

keep your sadness-- whatever
furniture that might be--

i think my sadness 
is the blanket your made--

it's holes are rifts

in universes i will
someday travel to & fix--

for now

this is the future

card board box me

wrapped in newspaper 

fragile fragile fragile

becoming bats or
nautilus--

the gaping mouth of canyon--

a swell of an ocean 
rupturing with yellow tangs

come visit me 

someday when i find
an address to hide beneath

until then think
of me when you 

those orange & white

moving vans--

i'm in the back--

eight years old & 
we're pulling away 

from the house
once on main street--

watching bones collapse

beams snap--

swallowed by dirt &
wandering furniture--
the dashboard we sold--

still holding birthday cards
in it's teeth--

wondering what it could
have done wrong--

fragile fragile fragile

where are you moving? 

filament 

from fairmount park
the city is the filament of a 
light bulb 

screwed into the back
porch lamp of my parent's house

on noble street 

there are places that 
only exist in the summer

& the driveway is one of them

bottle cap prayer cards &
carpenter bees 

selling gospel--
humming choir--

bartering their stingers 
to the wasps for a greater
chance at heaven--

each one an individual 
rosary bead--

back to the city--

i was counting each 
bright building from my 
parked volvo--

postcard picture horizon--

my engine had been
over-heating 
from the red stop
& go 

so i pulled over 
even though i was
only a few minutes 
from you apartment building

i didn't tell you
that i stopped over
here--

stepped outside the car
& leaned against the hood--

that's us right there--
burning inside someone's

light bulb--

edison-- trying every 
possible material to 

keep the glow going--

we are those bodies 
who banished candles--

electronic radiant birdhouses

if i shake enough
will we become that snow globe
on the shelf at the museum
gift shop?

swallowed by a belly
of white glass--

twisted into the 
ceiling fan--

whose wings are we
borrowing?

i wished you were there
with me so i'm re-writing
the memory with you 

we don't say anything 

the ceiling fan blows gently
as it extinguishing a flame--

you kiss me on
the neck & we're both warm--

find each other's light
switches on the smalls of
our backs--

a bedroom wall--

& the city was nothing
but coiled wire

but the inventors

cheered from the red birthmark 
clouds dusk

you & i became a light bulbs
there-- in each other's hands--

soft smooth glossy surface--

warm from being a city

perched so far in the distance--

i get back in the car--
alone in the wake
of an almost memory 
i finish
driving to you 

feel each filaments 
of my veins--

you make me pray to
bumble bees--

oh there are the ghosts
of candles

following me in
the street lamps--

all of them are us--

this weaponry

you will find me some
evenings in chain-mail--

skull encased in metal 

the minute man--

twist the arrow before
you yank out the shaft--

this way you will bleed less--

my father bought me red
boxing gloves & a blue mouth piece--

flatten your breasts with
gauze the way the
moon suppresses waves

when she's ready for bed

when she's tired of
hearing sailors reaching
for her--

copper fingers--

rest your bones in
an empty green bottle

is this the first
time that you dressed like
a boy for war?

was your father proud
of the blood you managed to
dig up from

the backyard--

swing-sets into catapult--

so proud my
dormant weaponry 

& we read about the girls
in the civil war 

who swallowed gravel 
to deepen their voices--

kneeling in the dark
praying to god 

to un-sex me here

we cut our hair in the
ocean 

because the moon
is good at keeping secrets--

hold your musket ready--

grin like a horse while
they inspect your teeth--

i never questioned my
desire to fight & be fought--

the ghost throb in my
stomach where i had been
punched--

i savored the ache--

let it infect--

the will of war is contagious--
the desire to right
the wrongs 

inflicted on your body

girls: i suggest the 
bow & arrow

they won't suspect you--
their guns over
their shoulders--

& there you'll be 

cutting your way through air--

these days i keep 
a closet full of armor--

begin dressing at
the first blinks of dawn--

a shield glint in the window
behind the closed blinds--

this is the first lesson
& not being naked--

your flesh is epidemic--
is prone to bleeding if
left too long without metal

my father told me
that we don't retreat &

so when they blow trumpets
i got-- 

saint joan of arch

oh what kind of weaponous 
boys did they make us?

i think i want to stop dyeing my hair

eye-liner wing-beat heart
ripped teal stocking-thigh

what color is your hair now?

what kind of nature with bark
& woods-- 

what prickly weeds?

wash the onion grass before
you eat it--

cry orange & maroon
all over the bathroom sink--

play murder in the shower
this time with yourself--

whose blood was blue?

whose veins drained 
to dye your hair?

the fifteen year old 
on her knees praying to
god to make 
her cold & cobalt--

dragon knuckled--

he liked a fistful of hair
to grip like
horse reigns--

his love was a kind of
pigment-- 

raw scab & dry elbows--

i've had my hair dyed 
since i was fourteen &
you ask me what
my natural hair colors is--

i think of a river
mucky & brown-- shaken
by august down pour--

i wade in to my waist--

resist the urge
to let the current make
a stick of me--

no one teaches girls
what their hair is for
so i cut mine off--

hooves on asphalt--

a horse & buggy 
towards the meeting house
on sunday--

is your god wearing black?

is this a funeral for 
you or for color?

the calico cat under 
the shed--

head in the paint-brush sink--
burn of bleach--

the closest i've come
to setting my head on fire--

oh the phoenix

the brown-haired boy
phoenix watching himself

nature in the mirror--

i'm letting my hair
be brown 

& color is a ghost--

teal & indigo--

the eggplant hues 
of senior summer &
the orchid pink prom photos

still sauntering at 
the bottom of some drawer--

you colorful girl--

whose nature did you belong to?

oh what now 
is a boy with brown hair?

does he burn?

he's got rivers &

blue hydrangea petals
beneath his finger nails--

he grows in april when
the shower/rain 
is finally done--

standing in 
the fog of a bathroom mirror

the waist of 
a maple tree 

the way mud kisses shoes  

the sky left thumb prints--

The Adam 

it begins as you 
escaped from The Adam 

a fracture of ribs crunching
beneath you as you trespassed
in the skeleton garden--

bone in hand

you thief you 

& at the windows eden
is the name of his sister 

she eats apple seeds
& sends you post cards around
the holidays--

vicious trees with their 
varicose bark--

their bird-beak teeth--
grinning with talons--

where do you hide
when the world is his body?

when his hand-prints
leave their ghosts in 
the tide pools of your soul--

is your spirit made of 
water or fire?

you burning bush you--

you runaway prophet--

what happened to 
your one flesh?  

i saved his voice
on the answering machine
as a reminder of 
what running sounds like

to recall 
how easy the pairing
knife quarters the 
flesh of the peach--

a stomach full of pits--

these collagen promises--

you took my knees 

& kissed the physical 
out of my skin

until i felt un-real 
an elbow in the soil--

you: the garden with the white
fence, the timid plum tree 
& the latched gate--

you: the root--
the thick & purple veined--

when the landscape barters 
itself into night &
the grass bristles with
frost i want more
ribs--

i imagine perching over
you as you sleep--

bare chest & blank earth--

you have an unfair number
of bones--

& here i am clutching 
the one gift rib--
greedy boy of the dirt--

who shoved red pepper
down my throat & chewed
basil leaves on the porch--

oh i hate that 
i left a half of myself
in you--

oh how un-whole we 
are-- how unholy--

digging between the zucchini 
& un-ripe pumpkins--

loose earth--

i still don't want to see
god-- i know he's gold & 
busy cutting himself into
communion hosts--

i can't re-conjure your
voice anymore but

sometimes your laugh
rustles leaves & 
i think about 

laying beside you 

severed & murderous
on the cutting board sky--

clink of knife--
i minced garlic &

you opened the sliding glass
door with a handful of 
tomatoes & finger bones--

molecular

do you feel
yourself 
molecular?
the collaboration 
of thousands 
of little rooms--
the office building
in the city with
the green lights
up its spine--
sometimes when 
i can't sleep
i lay & think 
of 7th grade biology 
when we first really
learned about cells--
i think of them like
bedrooms to pace
in-- soft 
desk lamp glow
& end tables
to perch a coffee mug--
a window towards 
someone else's city--
what color are your
stop lights as they
reflect?
do you sit 
criss-cross on
the carpet floor
of your cells?
you nucleus boy
with the mitochondria 
harping on you
about needing more
energy--if 
we're going to 
have a metropolitan body--
we're going to 
need to stop
staying up
so late trying to
read the hotel bible
tucked in the top
desk drawer--
you feel yourselves
curled up
in bed-- wrapping
bones in 
psalm pages--
you turn to the story
of esther & 
recall it was 
your mother
who told you to
tempt kings but
never too far--
always in the name
of god--
you wonder if
god has ever been
this small--
a membrane--
vesticle & ribosome--
has he made churches
out of one of these
rooms?
how do we live
in so many small separate
spaces?
there's enough fire exits
to assemble into
poetry--
what parts of you
are angry & red &
heating up?
i decided to go
wandering tonight--
come with me
if you want--
i'm going door to
door to introduce myself
to each mosaic-me--
i've been thinking
we're less like a puzzle
& more like 
a broken glass of water--
take you time as
you take inventory
of all the floors
of your body--
if i'm not mistaken
your soul has an
elevator-- get off
on the fourteenth 
floor (which is
actually the un-named
thirteenth floor)
i'll be there carrying
a potted fern & 
pocket bible--
these margins--
these lock bolt doors--
turn a thousand door knobs
before one opens
& we come undone--
metropolis us--
a quiet shatter--
invade me 
like a bouquet--
i want to open
every single window 
i want to relearn 
capacity-- 
do you see me 
molecular-ly?
like a room
you could sleep in?