*TW transphobia, gun violence*

plastic spoon & milk carton kills them, not guns 
their hearts murderous with seat belts, not guns

shoelace-knotted weirdos-- hopscotch lovers 
these are the mental-ill culprits, not guns

innocence: a barrel mouth--shrapnel kiss
jump rope nooses, death by recess, not guns

bathrooms-stall hiding secret genitals
violent with gender pairing knives, not guns

surely your body can travel bullet-fast 
you believed in a sunday god, not guns 

blood loss & open wounds kills them, not guns
enough to rain--the rain kills them, not guns 

 

Popped off my knees like bottle caps & became a boy

Daddy crushed diet coke cans & i became a boy

 

hands goldfished in the creek—colorful pebble feet

Don’t feed her too much or she’ll grow into a boy

 

Flag pulled down from its perch—waved laughing upside down

The monkey bars at the park know she will be a boy

 

Reflected in rain-windows—chest wrapped in white gauze—

I scissor cut mountains—pressed my lips to a boy

 

Catch tadpoles & swallow them wriggling & whole—

Amphibian mother—gills are a silly thing for a boy

 

The first man was sliced down the middle— half & half

So you’re wondering which half of you is a boy?

 

I wrote my name first in the fogged window, a boy

a soul planted in pumpkin seeds, harvest the boy

i shipwreck

lights bleary in the night ocean
out one by one--

a city in tilt--

mast snapping 
mossy twig under foot 

we ran away like girls

highway healing
each other-- 

bought the house
with the stilts--

ate hot peaches in august--

& this body had life boats 
but we sold them for 
clip-on earrings & black boots

this is the house we bought
that fell into the ocean--

knees buckling as 

i felt myself un-loving you--

each kiss a kind of apology--

a rejection of the possibility 
of submersion--

i shipwreck--

drop potted african violet 
from the windowsill--

mother with the jars of
basil & thyme--

a pocket watch assimilated into
the salt water--

slow down--

our arms gold & hushed
as the gears drink--

deeper past a german submarine 
that my grandfather will
try & obliterate

with bombs--

the soul of a whale rising
past-- carcass already 
a cathedral at the very very
bottom 

where the animals are 
moon-light & the sun is 
a fearful legend--

you're not coming with--

& when the scuba drivers
come looking they 
will find nothing of value--

wood & metal stomach 
blooming open--

they will bring flash lights--
find my legs broken backwards
from trying to run 
fast enough to walk 
on water--

i imagine maybe you 
read the newspaper

& hear about a shipwreck 
in the headlines--
imagining a treasure chest 
diamond & sapphire--

i buried that all in the front yard--
in your palms when 
you weren't looking--

you sometimes till wonder 
why you feel heavier
than before you met me--

what will you tell them
happen to your wife?

the one with so many dresses
still waiting in
your closet like hot air
balloons--

the one who baked lemon bars
on sundays & went to church 

but only for you--

she was trying to dig
the holy from inside of herself
but she only found gem stones--

that's me of course--
cutting my hair on the dock--

rib cage housing crustaceans--

eyes shut-- pretending to
be asleep--

i shipwreck

& the scientists say

i have several more years left 
before salt & ocean drift 

evaporate the hull--

before then will you visit--

will you tell me if you remember 
the smell of our attic?

the jars of basil & time--
the still pocket watch--
mouth open-- 

we have the souls of whales

Let’s play hangman

 

drawn into the noose—

 

the letter ‘e’ did him in—we needed a vowel—

 

& the lady in front of us in line at the Goodwill said

did you hear there was another shooting

in Florida—a high school—49—oh no not 49 dead just shot—

 

another

 

the vowel you were looking for is ‘o’

 

‘o’ the shape a mouth makes when blowing

bubbles on the porch in april when we take

off our sweaters—leave them on the back of desk chairs—

 

9 dead—yes 9 dead now

 

& there is a letter to be guessed

 

& the letter is likely one of 26—some more weighty than others—

 

& the letter is so heavy that it hangs—

 

i’m thinking about that time in middle school when

we waited in the grass by the church—

 

where we sat excited by the threat of a bomb

& you were briefly in love with someone

whose hands was sweaty—

 

‘o’ like a bomb—like the doorknob to the church—

 

another

 

it was all so absurd—we passed fear &

moved on to laughter

 

we laughed—

 

mouths shaped like ‘o’

 

‘o’ the barrel of a gun—

the tongue in the lockdown drill—

be quiet—that’s the shadow—

 

guess a letter guess a letter

 

another

 

i want to buy my damn clothing

& get out of there—

 

& the prayers become ghosts—prying

themselves from the camera of my iphone—

 

hashtags in their jaws—

 

there was another shooting

 

& the barrel of the gun

guesses the letter ‘o’

 

finally—

 

with our arms dangling legless—

 

let’s play again

let’s play again

 

start with the vowlers—

 

it will be april then & there will

be less mouths to fill with bubbles

 

& the sweater didn’t stop the bullet—

 

why didn’t you guess?

 

another

 

another

 

the scaffolds draw a crowd—

 

we sit in the grass by the church—

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--