temporary 1. i live inside an origami crane-- wings pulsing-- i don't want to hang pictures on the walls because the next time it rains the paper will go limp & the ceiling leak heaven 2. the position of the clouds-- playing tag with each other-- out of breath i run to try & catch one-- my brother was a cloud 3. the gaping moon 4. whose scars are temporary? mine printed like hieroglyphics-- the language of pictures-- the interim of words-- 5. this morning i wrapped myself in three blankets & still refused to accept that we were here in the thick of winter 6. i am always so naive to believe these augusts will be eternal 7. the clouds who burst into butterflies 8. my brother who bursts into butterflies on the other end of the phone call 9. i build a home in his mouth shaped like the waning moon 10. my bones to steel in the night air-- open the windows & let out the heat-- 11. mistrust the carpet-- folded paper foot print-- 12. the snow will melt 13. the rain will freeze 14. i will again be mistaken by god for a statue as i un-tomb myself in impermanence-- 15. my address i ask you to send postcards to-- i pretend that this dorm room is somehow flooded with blood-- 16. my blood 17. this list 18. how far does my list poem take you? 19. the ache of my spine becoming your staircase-- 20. the ache of remembering the euphoria of skinned knees & the cool dusk of autumn 21. i am 21 years old somehow & my brother is 18 & we will soon enough be older still & we will soon enough again be sitting in my green volvo & briefly stumbling-- headlights wide-- into the clouded sky-- 21. when we're done talking about why we're depressed he'll move on to explaining the intricacies of germany's involvement in world war 1 & the clouds will chase us back to noble street-- we love history & books because for a little bit we can hold onto something-- 21. the treaty of Versailles is being sign on a wooden bench in the back yard-- joyce again writes Ulysses & vonnegut's promise of so it goes so it goes so it goes echoes in these rear view mirrors-- 21. the stair case is made of books & the words of half-dead poets 21. the rain comes or was it snow? 21. the clouds catch up to us-- bleed our pages white 1. oh fold yourself tightly it is in fact winter
12/28
i'm waiting for her the waiting room furniture is migratory-- a flock of it's own-- following me from psychologist to doctor to the quest diagnostics where i wait for them to take me apart by vials-- what do you see in my carmine veins-- i rust over like the rail road tracks down by the foundry from lack of use-- balance on my own wrists & you held my hand in the slick summer & we were fourteen & just beginning to discover infinity in an afternoon-- i'm here to follow the tracks in the dirt left my leather sofas & stoic-backed chairs with their pinched noses-- lamps with trailing two-pronged cables-- the real illusion is the we have time to waste-- as if time were something to be held rather than balanced on-- hold me steady or i'll fall & scrape open me knees & my rust will gush out like paper weights-- weigh me down gravity-- weigh me down-- my pockets are full of clock hands & loud digital numbers i harvest from my father's alarm next to the slouching bunk bed that is also a piece of waiting room furniture-- will you take this time to sleep? will you remember one line of a poem-- run it over & over again in your head until it disappears nameless beneath your tongue-- here time dissolves in the bright smiles of magazine covers-- in the obscurity of office paintings-- covered bridges-- walk through one with me-- i'll show you how well i've learned to balance-- this is how we find the leather couches-- their stubby legs leaving punctures in the dirt-- what kind of dull pain do you feel in your chest when you realize you have let the night walk all over you? you have let dusk bruise your shins with it's heavy heavy boots-- did you sky remind you of your father? did you finch-- did you recoil-- did you bend the railroad tracks like a constrictor tightening-- leave knots in the clock arms-- leave promises in the cushions of the chairs-- who are you waiting for? i'm waiting for her to be done-- from them to draw out all of her blood vial by vial until she is better-- until she is younger than fourtee before she rusted & before she ate onion grass out of curiosity-- we are a nomadic people-- don't believe them when they tell you to stop wasting time-- look don't you see it? it beams like a rust-mouthed tea kettle-- steam-- the afternoon is as long as it wants to be & when the waiting room furniture roams-- i unplug my iphone charger & follow-- be home before dark they say-- what do you think they'll find in my blood? a pile of thumb tacks? your unwanted touches? the snakes of your shoe laces? let me trip-- i want to be unsteady-- spill myself-- carbonated & dizzy-- i cast out with my fishing rod-- snag the horizon line-- shut the eyelid of the day-- time is not so much a penny as the sound of change dropped on the tile floor-- if my body agrees tonight i'll sleep in a painting-- one with a sun that doesn't budge-- i'll hide under the barn with the tails of a thousand cats-- i'll hear them call my name from outside the wooden frame-- i'm waiting for her-- she's getting better
12/27
petri dish you & me woke up in the same petri dish-- yellow incubator light overhead-- it is a question of who is faster at consuming? our world was small & our cells were simple & prokaryotic-- in the town where i grew up they tear into the asphalt every summer & the beeping of backing u vehicles kept my night shift father awake-- staring into the ceiling while my brother & i walked along the rim of the dish-- traced our own perimeters-- the mountain past the Rite Aide where the whole world ended-- & in the 10th grade i loved biology-- our biology-- our sickly biology-- the biology of our bodies in petri dishes & the back seats of cars-- our biology of basements & the yellow incubator light glaring down at us-- this was our single-celled life-- this was our growth-- the impending collision of our expanding bodies-- who will eat who? isn't that always the game of our fist loves-- who will grow up faster & leave the other one to sleepin in the halo song of golden moons-- we ate gas station doughnuts & i learned that a 'no' from the throat of a girl means nearly nothing but an apology-- i made my own holy water from blue raspberry slushies & i still know kutztown's side roads better than my own cell structures-- i don't remember anymore about the different membranes of the bacteria cell or why we raised them in the back room of the lab in 10th grade or where they went when we were done spying on them under microscopes-- peering into their soft & tiny bodies-- there pilus-- the small hairs propelling them through swiftly across the agar-- i had thick legs as a girl & dresses to hide them-- you had black hair & sometimes you bumped your head on the roof of my house-- that's how tall you became-- how much space you take up inside me still when i think about your hand snatching a fist of my hair to yank-- who will consume who in the petri dish? who will climb through the microscope's lens back into the lab where i was wearing gloves & goggles-- marveling at the blueish hue of the bacteria we had inspired-- there the stop light on main street blinked & a singular red toyota clamored out of town-- & no matter how vast i become-- when i see that car-- his car-- i alter-- simplify my cells --on my knees in agar-- membranes throbbing with the fear of the memory of such smallness he sparked in me-- oh what do you remember from biology class? do you remember counting the bacteria on the back of your hands-- did you believe yourself a microcosm? & the street lamps don't go on all at once in kuztown-- they light one after the other until they find their way to noble street-- expanding only to the edge of corn fields
12/26
it's a wonderful life it's a wonderful midnight-- a wonderful car ride-- a wonderful backyard our neighbors built a tall tall fence to keep our headlights & our eyes we flick like marbles through the grass-- whether we like it or not-- humans are great builders of fences-- a wonderful fence brick by brick sectioning off our own corners of the sky-- the evergreen tree who is all of our grandfathers-- yes he belongs to us-- the fence says so-- when i was seven i dreamed of clothes lines in the backyard-- of wonderful clothes lines of my long-sleeve yellow shirt flapping in august breeze-- dreamed of taking images of the moon with my disposable camera dreamed of of tight-rope walking-- dreamed of balancing & sitting up on the roof-- the fence grows up to the shingles but if you look up you might believe the sky would take you back-- a particle in orbit-- a wonderful orbit i was there roof-thinking about that movie "it's a wonderful life" my uncle used to talk about it every christmas even though we seldom watched the film-- basically these angels talk this guy out of jumping off a bridge & killing himself by showing him how wonderful his life was-- there are two things wrong with this movie-- 1) this life is not all that wonderful-- we don't hang a clothes line-- we don't see over the fence-- the washing machine bangs her head into oblivion-- she too escaping gravity-- the laundromat becomes a hymnal & on christmas we all come to bed to think about death 2) where have these angels been for me & all the times gravity abandoned me on roof top clothes line? our bridges don't have angels-- our bridges have memories & fences aching to scrape the underbelly of mars-- our bridges have fathers with callous fingers & mothers with oven mitts-- tonight i felt a release-- felt my shoes leave the snow-crusted earth & i rose-- i rose above the fence-- above the shingles above the clothes line we never hung-- disposable camera in my hand-- sent into orbit once & for all-- these angels will see me as a comet maybe-- passing on occasion to snap a picture with the flash on & then roll the little black plastic dial on the camera to be ready for the next shot-- the moon still hangs un-photographable & the other planets duck behind their moons to avoid my lens so i turn to the back yard there my brother un-sheaths his bayonet & stands-- an angel on a clothes line-- reeling me back towards earth with his wingless soldier body-- it's not a wonderful life-- it's a disposable camera life-- a roof-top life a tall tall fence life-- these angels these angels they're us
12/25
white christmas the sky wanted so badly to snow for us-- last night as you drove me home we listened to her as she sobbed in her bathroom-- touched her face with the back of her hand-- felt herself falling more & more she came down as as rain on our wind shield & you said that it wasn't quite snow-- there is a loneliness to christmas that has settled in me as i've gotten older-- a deep fear of darkened store-front & the absence of open signs-- it is such a terrifying & rare thing to see people stopping-- to see the super market parking lot vacant-- i have a deep sympathy for the almost-snowflakes this year-- i feel like the whole year sneaked up on me & now i'm here-- haunting my house alone on christmas eve & somewhere there are santas clauses with umbrellas & soaked socks-- will he start up our fire place again to dry off? will he come in through the window this year? will he bring me the slowness i asked for-- oh the sky just wanted that unhurried promise of snow-- the way it breathes a hush-- the way it teaches humans patience again-- when i was little there was once a thick perfect christmas snow & when i stepped outside with my father we saw reindeer foot prints on the roof & everything moved as if we were isolated inside a snow globe or a music box or living out our lives in one of those model christmas houses on side tables-- the yellow glow of our porch lights on the cotton snow-- for who do you melt? for who are you feeling heavy? so i stared out the window as the rain became more determined-- counted the cars as they swam with windshield wiper strokes-- i wanted to know where they all could be driving so late on christmas eve-- i wanted to tell them that there are no stores open-- there are no more places left to go besides churches & the WaWa on fifth avenue where people like me go to pray in the headlights of the congregation of other people so struck by the fear of the store fronts with their eyes shut-- this poem is a prayer for you & the snow-- a prayer that we stop letting years pass by without enough i love yous a prayer that you will wear your glasses when you drive at night & a prayer you & me will finally stop getting older-- you are the reindeer foot prints still pacing my roof you are the few persistent snow flakes that managed to fall last night--
12/24
neptunium in the 7th grade i discovered neptunium-- while other students were breathing helium-- their voies laughing off onto another plane-- or shifting for gold in the creek behind the school-- handfuls of rocks none of which bore the glint of the sun-- our fathers made batteries up the street in the factory that was easily mistaken for a city at night when even the street lamps often gave up-- all-fours i peered under my mattress to find the black radioactive rocks pulsing-- they deserved to be harvested-- to be loved like the plentiful elements with sparse electrons in their orbitals-- fingers burned to bone-- i tore them free-- wrapped my hands in gauze by the bathroom sink & my mother asked what i was doing in there so long with the water running-- i said i'm fine i'm fine i'm fine-- because everyone in 7th grade is fine & on the cusp of radioactivity that they themselves could never know-- i felt it swelling-- gripped the sink-- watched myself in the mirror-- oily skin & freckles turning into pot hots-- i tripped on my own mirror image-- palms sweaty-- everyone is fine in 7th grade-- this was right before i let myself break full length mirrors-- before the windowsill was a god-- i returned to my bunk bed--filled my back pack-- every student had been assigned one element to explain to the class-- mine of course neptunium-- but no one expected us to become this close-- i spoke to her as i fell asleep-- learned to break off pieces small enough to swallow-- it tasted like a cross between black licorice & purple rock candy-- i locked my door-- i started to pray to the element-- the impossible element who had come to find me-- out there in the world there was hydrogen to be breathed-- calcium somewhere between milk & bone-- potassium in the ripe bananas on the fridge but we-- we are neptunium-- unfathomable-- born in nuclear reactions-- holding hands with bed posts & chubby freckled girls like me who wanted to pierce their own ears when the time came-- like neptunium we too wear black with the intention of having the night sky take us back-- we too wonder what kind of world would bring us into it only to admit that we in fact have no clear use-- a volatile mess of electrons & neutrons fighting for control of a body-- where do you hide your own entropy-- do you open your windows? everyone everyone everyone is fine in 7th grade-- everyone has wadded into the creek-- prayed to a false god who did at least for a moment understand them-- neptunium the God of instability so fraught he only manifests in laboratories & under the bunk beds of young girls on the brink of tripping tragically into the growing up games of children-- bent like a microscope throwing up stone & crystal-- cutting my throat till only blood still dripped from my chapped lips in the bathroom stalls-- hand sanitizer prophets are born here-- only in retrospect can i thank the burns on my fingers-- the nights un slept as we talked-- as she explained to me her body-- the way the scientists stared into her-- an object of awe-- of containment-- i promised her that i would never keep her like that-- i drew her image on a white poster board to present in front of class like anyone else & when i came back that afternoon she was gone-- i felt the cool bare mattress & cried-- everyone is fine in 7th grade is fine is fine is fine
12/23
DNA is it something in the twist of my DNA? the metal slide from the park-- are we descending? jacob's ladder of nucleic acids-- proteins & lipids-- the instructions for our bodies printed on a spiral staircase-- follow me up to the attic-- i packed the blue suite case full of stuffed animals-- we can clear a space on the floor & play-- oh god where did you write my brown brown eyes & where did you write the lonely ache beneath my fingertips-- is there someone else on this stair case or am i here alone going up & up & up or is it down? what direction do your memories whorl? whose ladder do you use to change the porch light bulb? i am someone to be coiled into-- someone to open the windows for-- i have resolved that it is something in my DNA-- in the smallest foot steps left in my chest that makes me like this-- like corkscrew promises-- like throbbing heels under my chest-- a man in boots pacing each rib-- i am a sleepless banister-- an anxious rung-- this ladder is made of guitar strings & deoxyribose-- i inherented the sugar phosphorus backbone from my father-- he in stubborn & far too attached to the persistence of ceilings-- perched on a cloud with a quill pen an angel wrote us-- his scroll curling-- helix of our headaches-- gyrating us into souls-- do you keep your brown eyes in the attic? have you ever tried to remove your DNA? i have-- took a bottle opener to my throat-- scraped & scraped as the double helix writhed & squirmed-- stab of my own finger nails trudging through flesh i begged for it to come free-- un write un write me-- i want to climb the attic stairs alone-- run away again-- pack the blue suit case & travel up & up or was it down? what direction do your brown eyes spiral? were you caught in a whirl pool of covalent bonds? i distrust these molecules-- i distrust ladders & the act of descending-- help me i want to take them out-- i want to live blankly & void-- i want to live without instructions-- a loose body dangling in uncertainty-- the metal slide at the play ground-- cold in the autumn-- always wear long pants-- it makes sliding down easier-- i'll pile my DNA outside my body as mulch & the neighborhood children with play-- swing higher than ever before-- land-- snap hydrogen bonds-- slowly i will dissemble-- become a molecule to be swallowed-- i hope when i drop i land facing the sky-- you told me that every night you look for Orion's belt-- i want to gaze with that comfort of knowing that there's someone else with brown eyes & staircases still trapped just beneath the skin-- twist with me-- grab me DNA handfuls-- the attic is waiting-- up & up or was it down?
12/22
semi-automatic is it naive of me to want to replace these bullets with rain? trigger thunder clap-- the god of lightning was displeased at humans incessant fixation on destruction-- as inevitable as the discovery of fire thus was the discovery of the bullet-- dropped from a grey cloud-- at first mistaken for hail-- they will tell you that there are bullets in your teeth-- they will tell you that the first bullet was from Prometheus-- the heroic defiling of the gods-- we revel in our own ability to draw blood-- how human how human it is to bleed oh this is our manifest destiny-- we expel metal-- we hone death down to the acuteness of a trigger-- we all learned about guns from our fathers-- from our backyards-- we learned that the eyes of deer are made of copper & to be used as bullets-- in my attic as i dug through card board boxes yet to be unpacked since we'd moved i discovered a small black gun-- trembling-- electro-magnetic pull-- i clasped her body-- the barrel-- the sleek trigger-- i aimed upwards towards heaven in case the gun discharged-- i didn't want to be holding her-- i wanted to burry the gun & never see it again-- i wondered who in my family would own such a tool-- i wanted so badly to test out the trigger-- as humans we have all been taught to pull triggers-- to absurd the kick back into our shoulders-- aim high past the ceiling light-- into the forehead of the clouds-- i pointed at god unknowingly-- snap of the gun-- laugh of a bullet i meant to replace with rain but instead burst into the white belly of heaven-- come blood in a drizzle-- a reddish mist-- fog-- thumb print teeth-- the ankles of my hands-- i stumbled-- the roof was a cloud running away from me-- a child wrong by the promise of the gun-- the snake was a gun & the each bullet another blood red apple for us to bite into-- at recess when i was eight & we were pretending to be robbers our fingers were semi automatic & when the teacher asked what it was that our guns fired we told her gumballs-- we all knew they were bullets-- it is grossly naive of me to sit here while rain drops chase each other off the ledge of a cloud & think that maybe just maybe they could explode from the barrel of a gun-- through our canvas shoes-- leave us dripping instead of dead-- oh god, don't forgive your trigger children-- it was me who aimed upwards-- recoiled back down into the earth-- please take back your bullets-- too silver-- too metal too fast
12/21
ripen let's eat the green bananas from a top the fridge-- i was not ready to be naked for you-- but there we were in the patience of each other's shadows-- peels in the trash can-- fingers caught in mouths of string-- we are never ready are we? i keep waking up in kitchen cabinets-- i ask my father to unpeel the clementines still in the basket hoping one of them will be me-- i have been waking up in the back yard-- i have been remembering my tooth pick sinews-- my stale popcorn marrow-- buttery & cold in the morning on the kitchen counter-- handful by handful-- let's eat our oranges sliced in smiles-- teeth still stung from tooth paste-- impatience is the first sign you are in too much love-- it's rising-- up to your neck-- do you remember how you learned to tread water? do you remember the intimacy of swim lessons? how it was the first time you learned what your body felt like when touched? this is self-love making-- this is the bitter white strawberries who were picked too soon & will in fact never ripen no matter how long you leave them in the door of the fridge-- i'm still persuading the red out from under my skin-- i'm still learning what kind of naked i want to be & there you came along & ate green bananas with me-- & there you came along & woke me up from the back yard & told me to come inside-- they say the apple doesn't fall far from the tree & out there in the frosted stubble grass i was looking higher & higher-- what kind of branch could have held a body like mine? i was green & fresh when you loved me-- i was a clumsy dive into a chlorine thick pool-- belly slapped from impact-- you were the water-- the hard thick vast water-- the finger nail beneath the skin of the orange-- ripening is a myth you know? no matter how many nights you wait in the heat of the freckled sky you will never be as vibrant as you are now-- your skin the color of limes-- there's mint leaves in your teeth-- stop waiting-- i want to learn to stop waiting for myself-- stop trying to dig the syrups & the sugars from my arteries saying this this this will make you love me-- this will make me taste better so i say lover let's eat the green bananas from on top of the fridge i have no patience for mornings-- i am ripe-- i am treeless i am stale i am so so anciently green-- when you find me asleep in the yard know that the sound of the clouds will wake me-- i'm not asking you to wait for me-- i'm just saying you can
12/20
mood ring if we all wore mood rings you could hold me tight between your finger & your thumb until i blushed blue & in love with you-- you could read me-- change my temperature & i could press you until you became beige & restless-- when i was 8 i got a mood ring at a gift shop on the beach & i spent the next few days holding the glossy colorful surface to different locations on my body-- my neck-- the skin of my soft palms-- this is how i discovered the shades of my blood-- my soul dripping cyan & yellow-- lime green & adventurously red did you know a soul could be red? & when you hold me i won't know what color i'll turn because i've long since lost my mood rings-- given up on the colors laying beneath dormant in my body-- somewhere on the beaches of assateague between waves eager to finally break & the gritty sand caked on my knees i lost my mood ring while searching for the color pink inside my-- i was delving for the uncertain-- the fearful-- the froth of surf & sunset bruising in the distance-- if you clasp yourself tight enough you can become any color & so i did & now i'm 21 & i don't have a mood ring but when you cupped me like water i leaked auburn & amber-- wild & mauve you let me go-- you let me seep into the soil-- a rainbow in formation-- a wave attempting to break-- come here & let me coax the colors from under your skin-- i want to see your grey- blue soul shake water from your hair-- & when i lost my mood ring i felt oddly free-- as if i no longer had a barometer for my heart beat-- as if the only color i had to feel was the red throbbing of my sunburn shoulders-- peeling as i surveyed the damages in a full length mirror-- i stung all over-- heat pulsing-- i wondered what color i would be if i hadn't lost the mood ring in the ocean-- if i hadn't warn it so dangerously & i wept indigo & vermilion-- amaranth & aquamarine-- laughing-- oh let me hold you tonight-- there are so many hues left to surface in you-- i want to touch you-- i want to help you feel them-- look our hands are amethyst-- trust me-- put on this mood ring & run away into the azure ocean with me-- this time we'll get lost on purpose-- break with me in rainbows-- press me to your neck-- your blood was sunset bruised & mine was still sunburned & red
