you make me feel small (in a good way)

i swear we fit in teaspoons--

you & me & sometimes the moon when

it's so new that it hides in the shadow

of alleyway pennies

you make me feel small in a good way--

like i'm sleeping in a thimble

unbutton my mouth with your thumb--

thread me-- needle between your teeth--

microscope my body behind

the wheel of my green volvo-- highway

flickers-- i am a stick of pink gum--

a jelly bean-- an acorn--

i ache with trees--

so small that no one will

see the taillights in my teeth--

the blare of my short hair bristling

in the exhale of 

every street corner--

i used to be terrified 

of smallness

praying to the bones of

dinosaurs--

plucking jupiter from between

mars & saturn-- a big red 

jawbreaker--

broke my jaw chewing pebbles

by the creek--

i fit in the glove box--

under your tongue--

flyleaf page boy-- i lay flat

& mischief myself quiet-- practicing

my signature with a piece of white chalk--

clap the erasers out behind the 

elementary school--

i kneel with the caterpillars

now-- small & hungry

& on your couch i am certain

i must fit in the palm of

your hand--

careful with me 

i could be easily lost

by a strong or determined breeze 

a hollowed out egg

a kiss left on a collar bone

come meet me while the moon

is still new--

while there's still a 

dark dip into-- hands & kness

beneath the pillow--

terrarium lid sky

& damp earth

what are you doing in the summer of 2013?

i want to meet up with you with my blueberry
hair & my leaves shaved into marble--

oh what parts of you are statue & what parts
are the result of the heat?

92 degrees & climbing

when the weather is poisonous let's 
drink creek water from teaspoons 

do you have any plans for this summer?
the summer of 2013?

i do-- i know i will get to feel 
my blood vessels turn into fireworks--

the ferris wheel lurching in 
my stomach as it churns me in love
with his hair--

i will turn sixteen & i will 
eat fun-fetti cupcakes on my porch--
lick icing fingers-- 

bite open water balloons-- 
here comes a thunder storm to
shake knees & door knobs--

will you wear shoes?

you don't need them-- it's summer
& kutztown is all grass & there's only
broken bottle on the other end
of noble street 

the kids call it "the ghetto" because 
sometimes there's a pair
of sneakers is slung over 
the telephone wires--

do you feel carnivals in you?

i want to meet you here before
i was a boy-- before i planted
hydrangeas in my forehead

before i could sleep without 
nightlights--

sweet sixteen & boldly green--

look for the girl with grey 
chuck taylors & a yellow
bikini-- she swallows goose-bumps

back then did you sometimes 
sit in your backyard & tear out
the grass in handfuls?

did you drink from the hose?

she's turning sixteen & she's 
cataclysmic-- razor blades 
drawing bracelets on her arms--

she wants to kiss you--

she wants to hold your hand &
meander with you up cemetery hill--
past visiting hours

she sometimes pretends she lives 
in the mausoleum at the very top

she wants to lay with you
underneath the ghost tree-- 

maybe you'll like it there--
hot & sticky & soft-skinned--
soaked in honeysuckle promises
& impending lightning--

conductive-bodied & rare--

she has a pocket knife with
his initials on it

if you're not busy that summer 
i'll be waiting on the bench--

the bench with white graffiti
in the park

the one where night pins
you down to kiss you

tongue down your throat
like a comet or a maple leaf--

this is a date 

we'll leave our initials--

dug into wood with 
my neon blue fingernails

 

mermaid love poems 

did you cut off you doll's hair for their
own good?

firewood fingers-- you daring girl with 
not enough matches-- 

makeshift sun

sleep over on the greasy face of venus--
she's hotter than you think--

we were too young for scissors-- too young
to run into mermaids--

i felt them swimming in my blood-- their
scales & tails thrashing as i curled
up in bunk-bed blankets--

the other girls could see the fish
in me-- behind my eyes--

these fish bowls-- 

when we broke the terrarium 
i hesitated to pick up their
bodies thrashing in dry air--

wet flames of orange--

goldfish eye morning--

call her a mermaid when she 
trips on the sidewalk & skins her
knees--

that's me-- out of water--
swing-set sitting & aching for
a creek to drown in--

they take my gills & wear
them like barrettes-- hair ties
for sling shots-- take the pebbles
from the driveway--

i'll be here-- blood pounding
with mythology--

my father always 
called me a fable--

the fishermen of course--
hang upside down on the
jungle gym--
caught in their nets 

i feed my love poems 
to the sirens-- they tell me
that these kinds of feelings
are best eaten or used
for revenge--

that these kind of feelings 
kill the lore left in you

so i walked away from
the lake-- dripping with 
icicles & 

my mother's blue station wagon
un-thawed in the driveway 

a kind of metal ocean--

spitting fog--

i chewed asphalt until school started

took a seat at the back of
the class room

aquarium sopping from 
wearing so many fins 

the other kids had 
fishhook tongues &
mechanical pencils-- 

i crossed my legs under

my desk

like a good mermaid 

picked the hooks from
my spine each day before

going out to recess 

 

lottery 

pick numbers from the well
& when you slip assemble
your prayers on the way down

a bird throat decrescendo--
the skirt of an evergreen flustered
in the not-autumn wind--

my hair dresser told me that
magic happens in threes & so 
of course i won the lottery 

& ran away for fear of turning
into a scratch card-- skin peeling
into a grey waste basket--

there's so much dream to hang on 
around here when your nails can dig dimes
out of the wall paper--

in threes-- like god & witches 
& plum pits & how to eat grapes &
bells rung from the side

of the altar as he blesses 
the bread-- does your bread become
body with the sound of a bell?

do you ring in threes? the lottery
numbers smacking on our front door
& telling us to be millionaires--

selling us crisp-smelling bills-- bank tellers
with bowls of dum-dums-- counting
us stacks on the porch--

what will you do with all that money?
i might buy a lock for my bedroom door--
one heavy enough that not event 

blackbirds could pick open with
their claws & i could keep out 
all the voracious numbers--

their round bodies & figure eights--
you tell me that i should give in--
stuff my pockets-- pluck coins

off the sidewalk & swallow them
like escargot-- salty & somehow still
wriggling with cravings--

i lay at the foot of my bunk bed
& wait for dad to come pet my hair--
by now my skin is shed in the corner 

& the money has become dead leaves
for god to sweep from the sidewalk--
someone told me that waiting

is equivalent to dying--
carpe diem or whatever-- but i 
think at least for me sometimes i 

want to let the day be-- let the 
numbers count themselves-- let someone
else lottery themselves into the ocean--

i think i'd buy a house-- a house
big enough for us to get lost
in-- knowing that the other one was there

but perpetually in another hallway--
another stairwell-- lost in the boundless
body that all that luck had bore us--

let's be unlucky here-- push the 
sofa against the front door & share
the twin-sized bed--

knit skin on skin-- crochet me
i want to be wool & thread-- 
i want to be number with you--

 

laser-tag dusk soldiers 

let's ultra violet-- neon paint our prophecies 
on the sides of the cliffs--

tuck the sun into the caves & seal the tomb-- 

she will comb all the knots from her white-gold
hair-- dripping with wedding rings-- bells on
the rocks-- 

have you climbed the church towers lately?

have you figured out who tells the time
when to move forward?

this is laser-tag warfare--

this is red forever

& we were twelve & melting-- 
sweat sticking my blue t-shirt to my skin--

crouch with me in flowerpots--

buy yourself to the knees

there is nothing to be understood
about this poem other that the war
was already coming before
the first stanza--

they had already purchased the
plastic tanks

my brother was already a solider

metal helmet catching bombs-- we wore
our snow boots in the winter & trekked
out to the space behind the garage
where no one from the house could see us--

we got on our knees-- we made
camp-- we set glow-stick fires--

we made blood promises with
our pocket knife thumbs-- 

veins glowing in the violet light
of the new moon--

our hair stood up on the back of
our necks-- we grew wild & unbelieving
in mortality

tested the limits of our skin--

was it me or you who broke 
the wooden step on the way
up to the deck?

the roof caved in & by the roof
i mean the sky itself-- so heavy
with our imagined bullets 

oh, brother, is this a love poem?

how old are we even & how many
years have we been backyard-walking--
have we been telling each other
nightlight stories to fall asleep?

you are too old & i am only
twelve & four months old &

you got to be eighteen--

take your gun in both
hands when you leave the house
in the morning--

there are icicle teeth 
biting down hard--

there are mountains where we
once laid hand prints--

when we finally find out who has
been orchestrating time all along 
we will tell them to take 
the weekend off--

take turns
aiming at tombstones--

ricochet off mausoleum--

lay down in the unfilled graves 
& laugh-- arms across our chests 
like mummies--

oh look at us 
indigo & twilight

do you have your laser gun 
with you?

we'll need it when
we decide to walk back 
up noble street 

a dog barks at
a wind chime spirit--

you point your gun 
like a flashlight

artificial 

recently i've had a hard time feeling real

i find my hands becoming sunsets at their
own will-- voice acrylic--

oil paint lips smearing all over my own wrists

was it you who made me this way?

turned me all

cherry cough drop & pine tree air freshener--
cellophane wrapped my body-- 

plastic pierce me 
o microwave goddess whose prayer is hum--

you count the freckles on my face like
head-up pennies for luck--

do i taste like spearmint? like
a stick of wriggly's gum?

what do you do to make yourself
feel real?

for me it's the water-- i take a shower
& assume that if i don't dissolve that 
i am likely a real

there is of course the possiblity
that the shower isn't real either--

or i slipped down a drain years
ago & this is just a memory you had
of me-- 

i used to keep tally marks

day by day by day

to measure the passage of time--
to ensure the moon did it's duty
& measured herself into nothing--

i think i think about
the moon so much because i sympathize--

i feel my body swelling-- taking up
the entire sky--

fingers pointing down my throat--
it was you who swallowed the stars
& was bold enough to smile--

until i was a fourteen year old girl
fading-- night furnace grinning me
into a sliver & a smirk--

how often do you get on your knees
anymore?

do you ever draw blood to see
if there's still rivers in you?
convinced it will come out blue
& syrup--

snowcone kiss me until i am sticky sleep--

i have come to the conclusion
that i am likely a hologram--

or

a series of tarot cards laying
face up on a wooden table 

or

a glint of light winking
off your rear-view mirror
as you adjust it on the highway home

i am not driving home--

my body was back there
laying next to you

you make me feel less artificial--

like bare feet 

like ice cubes

like a handful of bird throats

i want to walk in your voice 
& stay there--

leave my shoes by the door

when you kiss me
do i taste like spearmint?

when you touch me

i believe in the quiets 
of my own blood--

i turn off the lights--
straddle dark-- 

moon fade again 
beside you

hawk

there's a hawk's
nest in the attic &
our pupils dilated
into planets
in the stare
of each other's flashlights--
where did the winter
carry your bridges?
the melted snow creeks
are full of unborn frogs
waiting for spring
to warm them-- there
we are-- in clusters
of eggs-- our tiny 
embryo bodies making
orbits
inside our shells--
what kind of moons
did i walk on before
i was born?
was it a sort of honeymoon 
for myself--
did we dip our feet 
in Mediterranean ocean?
naked & sun-burned--
a red cinnamon candy
dissolving in the inevitability 
of coming alive--
i imagine i was
disappointed when i
learned it was
my time to stop exploring--
river ripetide
pulling me from
a ghost tree--
i ached with 
wanting for myself:
nomadic & unborn--
the currents were too
fast & there i was--
there i was stinging 
in window light--
sometimes my feet 
remember that wandering--
i felt it in the woods
by the creek--
the one with the limestone
kilns we used as temples
& the abandoned house 
where hawks roosted--
shrieking at our
pink skin as we put
out the fires of our
shoe laces-- 
sharpie-marker tattooed
the hips of the trees 
to mark our trails--
learned the language 
of dusk & all of it's
ambling color--
who could know where
purple is going
if left unchecked?
i think back then i
was maybe a light
shade of maroon--
back when i had no body
to worry about breaking
when i 
climbed grandfather tree 
limbs & eat handfuls
of wild berries or
maybe they were 
planets--
planets taste sweet--
not like gumballs but
like pop rocks--
like myself, i don't
know where this poem
is going-- it stepped
off the gravel trail
& found itself in
the girl memories
of autumn & broken
twigs-- in the deep girl
ankles scratched by
briers--
let's give the hawk
a name so that 
her babies will
laugh when they
learn there is something
she goes by other
than just "mother"--
i don't know
if there are hawks in
the creek but there is
one in my hawk & she is 
pacing-- flashlight
in her mouth--
scratching at the walls
of my skulls--
each talon etching 
echo-- 
i tell her she can
stay when
i really mean 
that it's time for
her to find a new 
body to build a nest
in-- i walk out
in the wilting snow
& open my mouth 
but she doesn't leave.

 

i've spent way too
much time in the last
few weeks refreshing 
application pages to
MFA programs
as if at 9:52pm
on a Sunday night
the selection committee 
will be making their
final decisions
clicking the send button
to welcome me
into some kind of
answer-- i started
doing it to my
email inbox too--
it's like when i was
little & first discovered
the phenomenon
of the mail--
how like magic 
the green box at
the end of the driveway
summoned
toy catelogs around
christmas & 
white envelope 
bills for mom to
stack on the kitchen
table with orphaned 
mittens & other odds
& ends--
the miracle of
a postage stamp
& it's small promises
to carry words--
the end of
my driveway is
now a computer
screen-- 
maybe
if i refresh this
page again
there will be
some email from god 
sitting there--
an attachment image
of my life all
mapped out in .jpgs--
the driveway dissolves 
into a keyboard
into a postage 
stamp stuck to the back
of my neck--
where are you
sending me? 
is god still up
at his desk?-- hunched
over a MacBook--
two finger strolling
down a list of
people like
me who write 
him
letters only
to save them as 
drafts-- if
i refresh one
more time 
will the asphlat
come back?
who is coming
with me?
the little red flag--
hand raised--
what's funny is
i don't even know
if i want to 
go to graduate school
or change cities
or have my name
on a dust cover
perching on the shelf of 
some independent book
store on a quirky 
main street--
stop lights 
key-chain swaying
in a gust of January wind--
i don't know if
i love you--
but i'm scared 
i'll punch in
the URL one more time
& i'll see myself
on the screen
at the end of my 
parent's driveway--
messy pig tails &
ripped-knee jeans
or
30 years old
on the steps of
some apartment
building in 
a city i haven't
been yet--
at first i won't
recognize him
until i notice
his black converse
& the nervous
way he pushes his
sweater sleeves
up to the elbows--
i know that
tomorrow
isn't coming
in the mail &
that waiting 
is a form of elegy
but i wish you
were here with me now  
tonight at my 
computer-- kiss
me like a postage
stamp on
my right shoulder-- 
this is a letter
for you--

 

body weeds

when you find your
body full of weeds
resist the urge to 
drink your father's poison
from the shed-- 
stretch your
arms high-- graze
the low hanging
branches of the 
evergreen trees--
feel your spine
fire-cracker on
the side walk--
they keep lighters
in the top drawer
next to the kebabs 
& the birthday candles--
crouch in 
the driveway with
your flick flint
& fire-- little
girl you have needles
& spines-- you 
have roots
as deep as your
own bones--
there is not process
of removal that 
will leave you 
unscathed-- 
do not blame yourself--
(as always)
blame gravity or the 
spore-breathed wind
who kissed you
with so many visitors--
kneel in
the water when your
skin needs to drink--
feel the river snakes
wriggle by you
on their bellies--
they won't bite
if you learn how
to stay still & mean it--
do not be afraid 
of the roots--
i know you feel them--
i know they knit
like your mother--
thick wool around 
arteries-- marionette
your wrists-- trust me--
the brush killer
won't save you--
nor will devouring
gravity once & for all--
we need your body 
held to soil--
we need the lush 
lawn who waits
beneath
the first snow--
we need the patience 
of your freckles
& the tenderness
of the dandelions--
if you are to survive
you have to trust them
when they tell you 
that they are flowers--
protruding
between ribs--
cracking the asphalt
of your neck--
you are going to
want to tear
yourself
apart-- uproot & 
bleed gravel--
you are going to
want to sleep on 
the floor by your parents
bed like you did when
you were young &
wrapped in fever--
this is you--
this is where your
body has grown--
when you find yourself
stranded in 
the labyrinth your
backyards & garage
doors do not cry yet--
first locate your
voice in the throats
of the morning doves--
in the start of 
the blue station wagon
in the drive way 
know that 
you are not home 
& that the weeds only
want to make you
more course & 
earthy-- less
prone to the full
threat of gravity--
hold still--
count backwards
from one hundred--
drink water
until your blood
trickles clear water--
you are such 
a bold sound of concrete
such a valorous 
attempt at 
sturdy-body--
let the weeds break you--
each fissure 
bringing chasms--
yielding breach--
so many entrance ways--
you amphitheater--
you stadium--
you bones

 

Hungary 

you tell me
that sometimes
you google the
immigration process
to countries whose
languages you
know you'll
never be able to learn--
you tell me 
Hungarian isn't
a romance language or
germanic-- that it's
Uralic & neither of
us know what that means
but we know we could
at least get lost
in it-- i trust
you because sometimes
i want to wipe
my body clean of
all traces of myself--
it's not that i don't
like my life--
it's that i'm curious--
i'm curious of 
millions of iterations
of my tongue?
what poetry would
i write if i
had spoken 
hungarian instead of
english?
would i have written
more about meadows
& flowers?
would i be less
infectiously 
nostalgic about
your barefoot backyard
worlds?
i'm getting us
two plane tickets
with the last money
in my bank account--
become untied with
me-- let's make
new names--
are there churches 
you want to visit
in Budapest?
let's lock arms
so we don't get
lost from each other--
i'm okay with
being no one if
you will walk with
me-- exchange
vows of silence--
i can feel the 
lights from the
széchenyi chain bridge
dripping
into the danube river--
we fall in too
& cut out our
tongues to let them
swim as fish--
we get more
& more distant from 
our old lives--
from the green mailbox
on noble street--
from the broken
blue & yellow glasses
on the red speckled
kitchen floor--
the sound of thrashing
corn melts
into water churning
around us &
when our tongues
swim back they speak
perfect hungarian--
soaked we emerge--
night is genuflecting--
it's saturday &
tomorrow we 
will have to find a church
for you--
we stop a young
couple
to ask for directions
to a hotel to
spend the night 
& they think
we belong here with
our english fed to
the water--
with the river
slicing our bodies
in half-- 
what rivers have divide
you?
where do you 
go to wash off 
the sun?
the couple gives
instructions-- 
walk up
two blocks 
& on the left 
there is a 
a step-ladder
you can take all
the way to the front
lawn of the moon--
they paused to add
oh & welcome home
welcome home 
& as we walk away 
i put my arm
around you &
say 
welcome home
welcome home
in a language  
neither of 
us will ever know