trust i woke up in the dark cold of the freezer-- this will preserve things-- down here time moves slower-- between the raw chicken thighs & shoe-string potatoes i turn over-- last night i saw they were calling for snow & i thought i could think my way out of it-- thought that maybe there was some way i could prevent the inevitable freezer door from shutting on my house-- prevent this stillness in my body-- i'm terrified most by snow's promise of early silence-- of immobility & patience-- how dare a sky be so patient for me-- i drew a thermostat in the driveway & told it to be summer-- shouted into the milky grey clouds to thunder-- to pour hot steam-- under my covers i pictured the heat reverberating off the sidewalk from a distance-- as if i alone could control the arrival of the a season & somewhere i felt spring stir beneath the layers of white sheets-- mouth full of bulbs & rain-- she thought i was amusing-- the tiny mortal boy on the back stoop-- rubbing his hands together & stuffing them into his pockets-- nose & cheeks a dull gala-apple red-- i think heaven is certainly made of snow-- that kind of light snow that is so wild that it doesn't even stick to your skin-- blows around like sand dunes or pollen-- the windows bloom with snow angle kisses-- i do enjoy the morning-- the holy morning before the snow blowers start chewing into our muscles-- the time when time moves so slowly that the snow simply hangs in the air-- where i stare up from where i lay & wait for someone to open the freezer door so that the light will turn on-- Billy is probably going to make those yellowish frozen waffles-- unknowingly he may push me aside to grab them-- only to shut the door again & i'll be here in the intimate dark-- believing down through layers of white-- burrying myself beside the brisk body of spring-- she kisses my throat full of salt-- her teeth yellow from daffodils-- beneath my boots the driveway is gritty from rock salt-- i melt down to my knees-- to my hips-- past my forehead-- oh if only i could have talked the sky out of this-- instead i'll lay here in bed-- packed in ice-- preserved-- safe from the nasty tongues of time-- blue & reptilian-- do you trust the snow? i think i do-- at least i'm trying--
embolism
if i inject enough air into my veins will i float? rise like a tired balloon to the ceiling of my bed room-- drift to the corner where the spiders build their summer homes-- while i sat on the examination table-- feeling like a slice of deli turkey with the crunch of wax paper beneath me-- the doctor explained that i must be careful to get out the air bubbles in the needle-- it's terrifying really-- how less than a breath worth of air causes embolism-- death by silent-- hapless air-- pink bubble bath-- blooming behind my eyes-- i open my mouth to follow the bubbles upwards-- chase them into the sun-- my blood boiling into steam-- a red mist like the chalky lips of mars-- i leave kisses on the back of alcohol swabs-- wipe away the blood from the needle-- if i die like this at least i'll be lighter-- at least i'll finally prove the moon & the sun are nothing more than pocket change--
01/03
someone my thighs are getting thicker-- maybe it's how long i've sat at my desk or maybe i'm becoming a tree trunk-- veins thickening into bark-- it's been too long since i caressed the torso of a tree-- drew my finger across the divets that make up her body-- the road map for the forest wrapped around her rings-- grow halos inside your limbs like the oak tree-- i lost my leaves dramatically in november with the rest of them-- tell me who do you become to escape? i often think about who i would have been if i would have somehow ran away to the city-- some big city with enough lights to make up for the dulled night sky-- you of course tell me you'll run away to the seminary-- i can see you in your cassock & wooden cross-- we can't hide from the thickenning of our own blood-- of course we can make up stories-- right now i'm making up a story about a family painting birdhouses & hanging them from my earlobes-- maybe cardinals will nest here or blue jays-- maybe here at my desk i will grow so immense that i break through the roof with the growth of my limbs-- oh the house will be cold-- do trees shiver or is that just the wind? my point is that i need to write this poem while i still can-- i need to tell you that there is no such thing as a "real you" i am just as much the country girl who ran away-- neon-souled to a big city & slept on a park bench as i am the boy who feels his body becoming a broad & course sycamore-- feel free to sit under me & pray the rosary or have a picnic-- fall in love with your own vast arms-- the rings inside your chest-- haunting yourself with years-- the callouses on your finger-- tips from walking a bass line-- sadly you are uncapable of being anyone but yourself-- oh my desk chair is a bird house or maybe a bench where i wait for the septa bus-- don't worry i'm not leaving-- one of me is just thinking about the view out the window as buildings break into a sprint & i fall asleep-- face against to the window-- breath making fog-- & there i was again-- hair full of cherry blossoms-- catch them-- they'll melt in your mouth or is that snow? what i'm saying is that you can't really escape becoming someone-- what i'm saying is take this opportunity to be everyone & when you're done come back here-- sit beneath my trunk & tell me tell me tell me all about it
01/02
2 minutes dad tells me the clock in our red van is 1 hour & 17 minutes fast-- fierce & digital green the confused numbers spill themselves boldly like bible verse suggestions-- psalms of the back roads where deers eyes becomes silver dollars in headlights-- he says he's been trying to change the time-- make it right but that he can't find the reset button-- he probes at the clock's face with his plastic finger nails-- tells me to give it a try i have a love for clocks who tell white lies-- for clocks who hold still-- pondering a moment-- 9:52 8:11 7:24 the times held holy by the black hands of clocks on the first floor classrooms-- i love the uncertainty for so much of my life i am more than obsessed with the words of clocks-- 7:55 wake up 9:00 run 9: 30 run faster 11:00 coffee 12:30 breakfast 4:00 eat an apple 7:01 when i can eat dinner & so on-- i traded my god for the order of numbers for the promise of time so i relish when the clocks fail me-- when they laugh when they stare bold & untrue at work the clock is two minutes fast & in military time as night comes earlier & earlier & the shadows no longer cast people i find myself walking in that in-congruent space-- in the gap between the true time & the red numbers on the counter-- the air is different here-- less tense-- unafraid-- bold & frozen wild-- i want to live here where time is too busy quarreling with itself to notice me being a late body-- i walk two minutes wide-- leave my seat-- slip into a myriad of darkness--i cut across the snowy field instead of taking the pathway home-- when i reach my room i re-wind all my pocket watches-- set three loud alarms on my phone (a sort of prayer) let me wake up on time-- on time on a time oh really if i could i would wake up back in that space the gap between your arms & my psalms-- my shadows cast a body until i turn off the over head light then i am there-- listening to the soft ticking-- counting the hours my body will soon live unobstructed & sovereign
cold
these are the mornings when cold takes on a body & follows me home inside the door-- crawling into bed next to me-- playfully bites my ear-- the cold is a terrible flirt-- presses hands on the small of my back until he's wearing my body as his own-- laying here i think of myself as a wonton or a pot-sticker-- or a pirogue doughy blankets enveloping me-- seal me with steam-- when i was eight i would eat deconstructed-- scrape the potatoes or pork filling from their casing-- place myself inside & reseal them-- with a few table spoons of water or a paper towel the microwave can give birth to anything & there i put myself for 30seconds- 1 minute-- watching the cold exorcised from skin-- here in my blankets-- resisting being born into another year still so cold-- i'm not so much afraid of changing as i am afraid that it will hurt & that i won't know how much it hurt until i look back-- head beneath the covers-- hot holy water wrinkling my flesh-- the cold will of course coarse himself inside-- open the windows a crack when i'm not careful-- i poke today with a fork-- perch on my wooden desk chair-- burst blood vessels-- fireworks on my neck-- the year is new--
01/01
tree bone i make my bed every morning at 7:55 by tossing my beige blanket until it hangs even-- resist gravity who tells me to wrap myself up-- lately i want to sleep forever where it's warm where no one can see my bones & outside of course there's the trees being so bold as to wear their nakedness-- their black bones shivering in the dull sunrise-- i keep the blinds drawn but i know they're out there-- caressing each other's fingers-- numbly feeling for clouds-- soon i will walk out the front door to admire them-- eyes watering from the mischeif of the wind-- carpals snapping beneath my grey & green sneakers-- how brittle are my bones in winter? how brave & frivolous are the trees to put on this show-- there was of course one point in the seventh grade where they made us label all the bones in the human body & i remember very little-- i'm haunted by the memory of blank flash cards & beautiful location-less bone-words somewhere these trees have fibulas-- they have a pelvis to sit on-- a broken patella-- a clavicle bruised from bird kisses-- i joke with myself that maybe this time next year i'll move away to somewhere not so cold in the winter-- like the blue jays -- i boast to the geese that i'm flying south this year-- that i'm sick of getting naked with the trees-- of course they'll hook & laugh because they know i'm too tired to fly that far if i wanted to-- you will always have a stubborn admiration for the place where you were born-- wrapping a blanket around myself i peak behind the blinds-- see the trees femur deep in powdery snow-- radius balancing the hestitant sun-- she peers in on them all in their waltz as they slow after a passing breeze-- we blink & i feel the next gust shake me-- skull swallowing air-- where are my leaves? wrap me in blankets, lovers-- pick up my bones & use them for fire wood beneath the bed frame-- turn on the over head light-- write tree-bone poetry-- i will tell the geese i am already gone
reset
to be honest i didn't really know what i wanted to write a poem about & i don't have the patience for a sonnet or some carefully executed series of quatrains-- i like to write like a spilled bowl of cheerios-- like a smudged window-- like a handful of bird seed-- i don't want to peel off band aides today & write about how my eating disorder feels like a damp card board box i live in or how the scars on my forearms stopped healing or wanting wanting wanting for people to see me as the boy i am-- no i want to write about my car not starting this morning & how i thought if i kept turning the key that it would awaken something inside the engine-- some sort of final spark & the car would sputter & shiver & we would stumble out of the driveway as we always do-- i got out to look at her-- tears turning to icicles on her chin-- i kept twisting & twisting-- hands turning statue because i'm too stubborn to wear any damn gloves-- with each forced turn of the key she choked less & less until the dashboard was dark & i was there gripping the cold steering wheel-- mirror fogging from my anxious breath-- i said this is when the car starts-- this is when the car is supposed to start-- she couldn't leave me-- this was when she was supposed to wake up-- this was when she was supposed the get on her knees & inhale deep the unforgiving frost-- my car has been a sort of lover to me-- we hold both hands when i'm too nervous to sleep-- up the street-- linger in the planetary glow of the stop light on mulhenberg drive-- park at the back of the lot where other cars won't see me lay down in the back seat among used books & a blue broom i use to wipe the snow off the windows-- i guess i did have something to write a poem about-- i have so many little things like that-- you know i don't actually have a single clue what i'm going to do today & it's the new year-- it's terrifying & my car is dead in the driveway & the only place i can think to go is my parents house-- not because i actually want to be there but because i have this fantasy each time i drive there that this will be the time that every- thing feels right like it only ever will in a smudgy memory that probably never actually happened-- when i don't feel so sad there-- i said maybe this year we could try my name & my pronouns-- it's exhausting to ask-- i don't really know how many more times i will have the courage to-- breath on the back window-- i don't know what this poem is about--
12/31
running water i have to confess that i leave the water running when i get ready by the bathroom mirror-- the quiet hush keeps me company-- comforts me-- i have never seen a real waterfall but i assume it is something like this-- i practice my voice in the mirror-- bathrooms were designed to reflect voices-- when there's no one else at my house i can say anything-- i say i my name-- taste testing it's nuances-- i sing fragments of songs-- sometimes hymns-- that's the thing about being once catholic-- you're never actually ONCE catholic-- the hymns come back to you when you most want to be secular or an atheist or a pagan-- here i am in my boxers letting myself sing ave ave ave maria-- hallelujah-- it's sunday morning & the water is running & the water is singing & the water is singing with me-- her body becoming a canticle-- she becomes a lover sitting on the ledge of the sink-- running a hand through my hair--thumb over my cheek-- she laughs & says i'm growing hair on my lip-- i'm here wasting baptismal fountains-- wasting the river Ganges-- the amazon-- the nile-- kicking up the silt-- water pouring from the basin & onto the tile floor around me-- baptism is almost always accidental-- when i leave the water running i turn it up hot-- almost scalding-- steam fogging the mirror-- i am so often a foggy person-- obscured by the running water-- in elementary school i would wait to be last in the bathroom so i could run water from all the sinks-- wait for them to warm & stick my whole arms beneath them-- eyes closed i could pretend i was at home & in the bath-- in middle school i would learn to take the pink hand soap & rub it on my armpits when i forgot deodorant-- sitting on the ledge-- letting the sink cry for me-- her water-- endless-- outside the water became snow yesterday but here she flows-- i ask it to tell me a story about when she was younger-- about her father & her & graveyard-- instead she tells me about blue gills & the feeling of fish hooks-- she tells me about a shell full of water poured over my head-- the priests leathery white hands holding my fat pink body-- send me down the river in a basket-- i want to be born here by the faucet-- i cup hands-- splash water to my face greenish facial scrub down the drain-- i hestitate before i push the handle to shut her off-- her laugh repeating-- her hymn-- wordless ave ave ave maria i leave the water lulling on second longer-- she kisses my forehead & tells me to make her my hymnal-- tomorrow is the new year-- i genuflect before i get dressed-- still damp & humming--
resolutions loosely made
i want to write less deliberate poetry-- stop asking myself what the poetry is saying & walk out bare foot in the powdery snow-- the kind that is so light that it doesn't melt at first & you're tricked into believing you could use it to fill your pillows-- i'll sleep damp & cold-- i want to listen to my mother when she asks me if i'm warm-- i want to be able to say no-- no i'm not all that much better-- no i haven't stopped keeping track of calories on my phone-- no i didn't know it was going to snow this morning-- no-- i don't know anything about driving in the snow-- i slide at the stop signs-- i want to learn to use my heart as a paper weight sometimes-- set it out on my desk-- turn the fan up higher to keep me company-- read aloud when i'm alone-- talk to myself more-- ask him questions-- laugh at his naked body in the fogged bathroom mirror-- pray my chest into clay-- not that earthy clay from the souls of rivers-- i mean that un-natural crayola clay that reenacts the primary colors-- this year i want to re-learn how to make purple & orange & green-- trust the water colors-- dry like oil & by that i mean refuse to dry-- i want to be inconvenient this year-- i want to write more poems on stickie notes-- more poems in sharpie on my own skin-- i want to write about the stars less-- re-kindle a reverence for the image of the moon & her audacious womanhood-- when it snows i want to write about it because when it snows it snows & it snows-- i want to be less afraid of silence & the 1402 unread messages waiting on my elementary school email-- i want make morning love to my own faint shadow-- cut her hair & kiss her forehead before she goes out to play in her green snow suite-- what is there left to write about anyway? i want to stop worrying about how long my poems are-- if they reach the rafters or if they resemble the white chairs in the kitchen i used to use to crack eggs on the side of the bowl when my mother & i baked pretzels-- i want to be imperfect this year-- i want to write more cliches-- more cliches about love-- it's all been written hasn't it? everything there is to say about us-- refer to romeo & juliet or pablo neruda-- i want to drink less poison-- live entirely for summer-- sweat unapologetically-- this poem is not a resolution this poem is a handful of that soft snow-- the kind of snow no good for packing-- no good for becoming men-- not even really fit to be angles-- you can't throw this snow-- you can't even really form it into anything at all-- even my foot prints to my car are quickly covered by the wind-- yes i run in the morning-- yes i'm vulnerable-- yes my voice is as clumsy as my teeth-- i don't really know where this poem is going-- i want to know less about where each poem is going or if it ends clean or radical-- i'm not a "drop the mic" kind of boy-- this is a poem-- a cold stone bench to sit on & wait for the bus-- a poem waiting for nothing or everything-- this year i want i want i want
12/30
in search of an answering machine blue-mouthed & eager-- will you read me through my new wax paper skin? do text messages travel on the wing-beat of the hummingbirds or have they resurrected the carrier pigeons for us? just between me & you-- we surpass the intricacies of satellites & put our trust in the birds-- pull the alphabet from space-- each 'i' & 'u'-- construction paper moon-- do you hear my words passing treacherously through the jaws of the grey night clouds? astray in the astral air-- between the furious heat of stars-- why isn't that anger enough to melt the doors of my house? i want to feel the texture of your palms-- enough to give my bones bat wings-- do they use echolocation? will they remember to tell you 'i love u' even though i send the same message every day month after month after month-- words intrepid breathing of air-- where are you when i send you 'good morning' at three in the afternoon because my concept of a day beginning keeps stretching taller & taller as the sun stubbornly crawls into bed too early-- pulls the covers over her head & stays away only to scroll on her phone-- oh i sometimes forget the sound of your voice-- oh i sometimes hear the hummingbirds smack against the back door-- their bodies crumpling like wades of sketch paper-- our house has no answering machine anymore-- i hear the reverberations of my phone calls as they're swallowed up by the collective of all these basements-- i send you hummingbirds in the hopes there are flowers growing somewhere in that house on noble street-- maybe the african violets from mother's day have survived by the kitchen skin-- maybe the orchid in my bed room got back her head-- oh if you had an answering machine i would have to hang up-- anxious to not leave my misplaced teeth beneath your pillows-- instead of let the phone ring-- it does not plan on stopping-- each ring sounding more & more like the moan of a sea monster-- the deep pulse of hawk wings-- in the window come the big black birds-- the birds made of shadows-- i hand them my text messages & they scoop them up in their talons-- they tell me next time i should rely on the satelittes like a normal girl & i tell them i'm not a girl-- & they laugh-- their voice crumpling-- i keep believing that if i don't hang up i will eventually reach an answering machine-- that someone will pick up & listen just to the simple rhythm of my breathing-- they'll remind me that i am alive-- blue mouthed & terrified-- what kind of poems do you hear? i trust the birds-- where they carry my text messages is between them & god--
