i wouldn't trust me
with time travel--
to be honest i wouldn't
trust me with most
precarious situations--
i empathize with
jenga-- see how
high i can get before
we laugh away our
knees--
i smudged 
the camera lens with
my thumb--
i smeared the 
concept of time in 
the process--
took the clock
hands & told
them to hold me
down-- pull my hair--
i used to hate
that-- it used
to make me feel
like a horse--
foaming mouth
& fistful of
reigns-- i hid
my hooves in sneakers--
time was always
a mess anyway--
i've been replaying
the sun coming
up again & again--
rewinding my own
chest rising
& falling as i sleep--
i often forget
the keys to my
skin-- sit here
on the coffee table--
blanket over my
shoulders-- 
i'm trying to 
talk nicer to myself
you ruin everything
you sometimes
cut forever into
pieces to make a scrap
book--
you should do more
exercises in sets
of 10-- 
you should think
of something 
kind to say-- 
i can hear you
telling me to
treat myself gently--
i'm not a gentle
person--
doesn't it
ever get tired of
raining?
i wear my shoes 
down-- a kind of nervous
erosion--
i empathize with
the Appalachian 
mountains--
getting so tall 
just to weather
themselves down--
i remember in
7th grade when they
told us they're
shrinking i
realize that
someday when we're 
all very very dead
there will be 
a slightly raised 
terrain 
the once shrugged
its shoulder for
me to climb on--
i don't think
time makes you 
love someone-- 
i dated the idea
of a boy
for 3 years--
walked up to north
look out-- hand in
hand & i wished
so desperately
to be alone--
i hate you
i love you body--
even if sometimes
i'm unkind & sometimes
we don't eat breakfast
when you're supposed
to & sometimes 
we meddle with
time-- back & forth--
brushing 
our soft brown
8 year old hair-- 
eating chicken nuggets
with honey barbecue 
sauce--
i should leave
things as they
were/are
but sometimes
memories
are better when
you hold them still--
cut off the edges--
the gnats--
the blisters 
on your heels--
i wish i was 
normal
i wish i was
sturdy in time-- that
i didn't have
to worry about
running away at
night--
where did i
leave the keys 
this time? 
this is the page
where you kiss
me & this is 
the one where 
i'm trying to 
glue the hands 
back on all these
watches--
all the loud
red digital
clocks just read
infinity
& yes it's 
my fault

this is a 
picture of us
*
sun in the windows
*
bodies
evading light
*
together 
unmeasurable &
instantaneous 

INTO SHAPE

disciple-me 
exercise video--
my god
was a five pound 
weight--
she cut her body
from a piece of
purple construction
paper--
10 minutes abs--
15 minute tone & sculpt--
give me give me
20 minutes everyday--
get your body ready
for the ocean--
ready for the wedding--
naked ready--
love me ready--
what are you getting
your body ready for?
give me 30 more
seconds--
hold hold hold for
me-- you want
those arms-- those
thighs--
don't treat
your legs like
a bible you
shelf-rest
& pretend that you
open--
read me a psalm--
are any amoung you
suffering?
they should pray--
i want to be 
this year 
i want to let 
the voices dictate
themselves--
exercise the silence
& the air--
the ones who eat
charcoal & 
infect my body 
with numbers--
i am your OCD dreams--
assembly of
mechanisms-- i 
designed myself to
be contained-- oh 
please i want 
your to  
spill me 
i want
to be scattered--
i don't want
to have a shape--
maybe i'll collect
as the rain water
does for
shoes to 
step in-- i'm
deeper than it
seems-- this puddl
goes down 
to the trench--
down to the 
jagged fins
of angler fish--
grow me gills &
i'll breathe fire--
i was a fist
of sand--
an hourglass 
unmaking itself
into a dune--
this is a prayer
to all humans
who want to
be owners of
bodies rather than
be owned 
by parameters--
what is your circumference
anyway?
your width?
you surface area?
take my geometry 
with you--
i could be softer--
more inclined to
sleep--
the carpet
was only
a roll of wrapping
paper
to be torn
open-- what
kind of body
do i have 
waiting in the wings--
meandering--
come forward--
there are bones
here--
they have
always been yours--w
i want to find
a shape that
is ours--
oh cascade me
skin--
i keep waking up
in the glass
of water
on my end table--

how do you fall asleep?

while the ocean
is busy making blankets
only to unravel
them in foam--
while orion wears his
belt of bottle-caps
& soda tabs--
we will inevitably 
be found 
with your eyes 
busy stealing so
many stars--
what kind of
fire are you?
& what kind of
water am i?
skin becoming
the soft stones who
rest in the clay
of the creek--
i don't trust
winter anymore
or rain
but i trust sleep
next to you--
nestled
somewhere
between 
currents--
did you know
the universe is
one big pond--
comets growing 
webbed feet like
tadpoles--
let's wake
up on the surface
of the moon--
look for rivers
to walk in

you made a casual apocalypse 

today is the apocalypse--
the end of everything--
of course
it'll pass like it
always does &
i spend most 
days thinking about
how close i am to
becoming an ending
that a sky of
fire does very little 
to shock me-- 
i make
coffee-- tear two
yellow sugar packets--
stir--
i ask the sun if 
she's getting up
or if she's resigning 
to be grey today--
i don't mind being
grey-- it's
the big finale
anyway & last night
i felt you
kiss me the whole
way home-- 
reckless-- i closed
my eyes at stop lights
in the hope of
falling asleep
& conjuring a dream 
of us--
your lips soft
honey-bee wings--
the steam
sneaking from
the rim of 
my mug of tea-- kiss after
kiss--
chapstick
leaving the gentle 
illusion that
you are coming
home with me--
i accidentally
kiss the steering
wheel-- cold--
flinch at the 
blare of the horn--
back to the apocalypse--
i'm not shocked
by this kind
of thing usually--
not by four horseman
or the crackling
streets--
i pull the blinds
closed
to keep  out
the glare of the fire--
it's best to
not give it any attention--
best to just 
let the world work
itself out--
i take a run &
think about how
maybe if i added up
all the miles
i've run this week
i could easily
have run all 
the way to you--
i would be tired
but it would
be worth it for
the romantic gesture--
i'm a mess as
you can see-- laying
in bed last night
i thought i was still
in my car & 
i reached for
the parking break--
i could feel
you reach for my hand
& we lined them
up palm to
palm-- oh 
how you make
mirrors to be broken--
park the car
on the ceiling
where it won't
come down--
gravity relinquishing
her hold on
the fading planet--
under my covers
i begin
to levitate-- lifted 
by the mischievous 
hands of angels
they're 
overcome with 
fear-- 
i fall asleep--
thinking of floating
down a river--
clear & full of
sun beam-- 
holding you
is kind of 
like that tension
at the surface of
any body
of water--
clear water lakes 
& tadpole 
pools in April-- 
the thin layer
on the surface 
that water bugs
skate across--
oh how 
i want to 
fall in
please 
kiss me again

cherry-tree buck 

i didn't feel the entry
point-- not at first--
yelp of your gun--
echo-- flush of
birds in all different
directions--
drop feathers like
snow-- trees raising their
arms in prayer--
oh spare me god 
of gunfire--
the forest
smoked around me
with the eagerness
of your trigger--
you replaced your
bullets with 
cherry pits &
called it love--
taught me to tie
knots
in the stems--
barrel pointed 
at my thought--
a joke about how
easy it is to find
ammunition & how 
even innocent cherries
could betray me--
stain my fingers--
is this blood or
juice? you
were the one
who told me to wear
white-- smudge 
soil-- my antlers 
caught again in the 
tree limbs--
snagging comets--
singed on stars--
somewhere in california
the whole world
is burning-- it's
only a matter of
time before it 
gets here & there
will be nothing
a little boy with a gun
can do but shoot
the deer's skull
full of cherry pits--
sprout from
my forehead-- roots
digging
down deep through 
my shoulders--
have you ever
bore the weight
of a planet?
have you ever 
held the body of
a tree? drop
your leaves for
me-- this is january 
& we are supposed
to be kindling
& here i am--
your cherry tree
buck-- trunk bursting
from my bones--
too heavy for me to
move-- the forest
floor will treat me
better than any
hunter & his son--
voles & squirrels
come out of curiosity--
scurry across
my chest-- check
to see if i am
in fact still alive--
they can tell i'm not
but they're eager 
for the tree to bear
fruit-- they congregate
in worship for
roots & the hunter's
creativity 
to use cherry pits 
for gun fire--
another prophetic 
man-- the spot
where the tree 
grew feels vaguely
like the course
hand the priest
making a sign
of the cross in
oil our holy water--
it haunts me alone--
like god is teasing
me one last time
with his phantom thumb--
come march i ache 
for water &
eventually i give 
in &  pray  for rain--
& it comes--
metallic tasting--
trunk too massive
for me to move--
you came back-- 
umbrella & green jacket--
gun slung over your
shoulder-- searching
my branches for 
fruit-- 
fondling leaves
till you found cherries
to fill your pockets--
it wasn't enough
was it? 
are we ever enough
for each other?
tell me though,
do they taste 
as metallic as 
the rain? 

marrow

last night
i became a museum--
lingering by
the window & wondering
where cars could
be driving to at 1am
i let them start--
the builders in their
blue overalls--
no one asked if 
i was ready--
it was assumed--
i extended my arms 
for them to work--
building me brick
walls & a little
japanese rock garden--
bamboo wind chimes-- 
modern-art statues 
of green metal &
mischievous sliver--
i love them because
they don't have to 
resemble
anything-- when i 
was little my
uncle would laugh
at the abstract--
the canvas of circles
& shapes--
telling me that art 
can't just be
anything-- 
i want all of 
those paintings
inside of me-- the 
undecipherable-- 
when i was little
at the reading museum 
i fell in love
with paint splatter--
found dragon-wings
in the splashes
& when i rained 
it came down
in jackson pollock's
palette-- my skin
a kind of pinkish canvas
& now a museum--
they put in a revolving
door & an entrance
with pillars--
they drape tarps over
statues as they haul
them inside--
i wanted to swallow
all the pinned butterflies--
all the skeletons
of owls-- renoirs &
monets-- keith harring's
dancing men laughing
with them bodies
down my hallways--
bring them in--
i didn't want
any empty walls--
art kind of keeps me
company--
laying here-- feeling
the frames nailed to
the inside of my
ribs-- lining
the corridors
of my radius-- 
the statues poised 
in my pelvis--
if you feel alone
come visit me here--
keep yourself company
with brush stroke &
plaster mold--
i've made myself
a museum for you--
there are benches to
sit on & 
if you are tired
you can always curl
up sideways & sleep--
if you find the need
to pray that's what my
eyes are for--
their stained glass
glow-- the piano keys
of my crooked teeth--
this is a replica 
of a cathedral
in france where god
would probably live
if he was an artist--
the doors are open--
check your coats--
hang them on each
of my fingers--
take a number from
my tongue--
i'll keep quiet so
the art can be louder--
so you can hear 
your own foot steps
following you--
i hope you're one
of those wonderful
people who doesn't read 
the descriptions
with the paintings--
just walking along
& stepping timidly
into each new world
like a puddle of
oils--
please touch 
everything--
feel the thick
lines of degas thrashing
trees & 
spiral with
van gogh as he manages
to paint the wind--
when you are
down feel free
to get lots in 
the gardens--
there here so you'll
stay longer--
oh who would
have thought that
all i had wanted 
was to be a museum--
your foot steps--
your pauses--
your excited 
silences a kind
of euphoria--
pacing the marrow
of my bones--
you would make
such a nice statue
you know that?

passport

i would probably
write better poetry if
i traveled--
you told me
about the trains 
in europe-- about
the view out the window
on the ride across
the countryside of
paris 
& the calliope 
of voices
filling the car-- 
french &
italian words 
thick in the air--
i dated an italian boy
for too long but
all i know about
the language is that
the word 'zingarella' 
means some sort
of wandering girl--
barefoot & sometimes
she dances--
i'm smiling because
he called me that 
& for a wandering
girl i haven't gone
very far have i?
i don't have a passport--
i just have
my legs & an old car
that has trouble
starting in the cold--
i should make
my own passport--
take scissors
to the morning 
paper-- a collage of
headlines & the 
names from the obituaries
glued together to
make a face--
i could use my pressed
roses from prom
that still smell
like hairspray &
black high heels--
paste them along 
the borders-- 
what else then?
would a sea shell be
too much?
would it remind me
of too much
of chingoteague?
where my father
taught me how
to catch a snapping
turtle by the tail
& where we
kissed on a dock--
let our feet dangle--
oh or was that maine?
i'm still sorry 
for the lobster we
ate-- i think
of him still--red &
afraid-- water heating
around him--
let's go back to
that train in europe--
the one you told me
about-- 
i think i would
definitely 
want to be there
alone but only
so that i could 
think about him
wistfully-- 
there is a certain degree
of pleasure
that exists 
only from being
away from someone--
when i cross
the border into 
spain they will probably
scour at my 
passport-- the wilting
flowers-- the black
& white newsprint
face-- the seashells 
protruding--
they will blink
& shrug though &
let me past &
i might write a poem
later about
the ridiculous
thrill of boarders
like when we drove
down to the ocean 
& shouted
out the windows
of my mother's
blue station wagon 
at the sign that told
us we were entering
new jersey--
i promise you i
do a lot of wandering 
even when it's
too cold for bare feet--
i wish there was
a word for
the boy who likes
to wander--
sometimes when
i fall asleep
i stand up
from my body--
passport in hand
& i try to walk
to him--
street light by
street light--
all the way down
the highway
into
city-- crawl
in bed next to
him & say that
i want to 
get lost somewhere
together--
i wake up in
my body again--
barefoot-- passport
in hand--
the train is headed 
for madrid--
passing through
barcelona
but only briefly 

all fathers 

all fathers take
their sons to fish in me--
what else is 
an hourglass
for?
blue gills & sulking
bass left over
from the spring
fishing derbies--
they're
kneeling on my banks
while the ducks leave
their feathers
like apologies-- 
on occasion i have
the honor of waking up
as the lake
in fleet wood park--
the one where
the bullfrogs are burrowed
deep in the mud 
by the first frost--
the one who wraps
herself in thick 
green algae come june--
today in my cracked
dinner plate finger nails 
i felt boys tremble
on my rocks--
peering in-- trying
to see themselves--
greeting their own
ghosts surfacing
in my face
balancing--
i keep hoping they'll
fall in & i'll
lift them
with both my arms 
back to the air--
it is january so
the park is empty &
my cheek-bones frozen 
over-- 
cataract-eyed  
& sleepy i let
the feeble skeleton
of the sun press
against me--
is this the feeling 
of being forgotten?
the gradual
shattering of
nails & teeth--
am i becoming a sandbox?
tumbling through
the world's soft
pink fingers--
i never did learn 
to cartwheel but
watch me somersault-- 
is this 
the hardening of
my water into slate?
there we are--
i can see us
my father & i &
billy on crooked-wooden
bench april--
fish hooks snagging 
worms-- billy with
a bag full of potato
rolls to toss
to ducks--
my father's
appetite for silence
brings a hush 
over the trees 
as they hold in another
sigh-- 
casting out-- 
hooks
dipping into my
skin-- i am so lucky
to be able
to live
a second life 
as quiet water-- 
rewind my own knees--
my own father's 
thick hands--
i am 
(of course)
careful not to
laugh so they don't
fall in 
i dream of 
what it would feel like
to have them swim
in me-- 
their memories
as air bubbles--
their wet shoes &
baseball caps--
reaching into me
with 
invisible fish lines
we make our own
telephone
wires to speak--
finger on
the line-- they
hear me breathing
in the ripple 
of the surface--
often i am mistaken
for a fish on
the line--
i can't help it--
i am so eager 
for them to be
here--  
but it is january
& i am tired 
& there are
foot prints in
the sandbox
from feral cats 
& the occasional
brother--
passing through
in blue 
sandals--
i only wish sometimes
that
the hooks do something
other than just
pass through me--
i miss the 
pain of skin--
the audacity of
wearing
illegible skin
i go back here when i
feel like there's
no where left--
when i want
to feel simple again--
squish potato
rolls between my
fingers &
cast out
again & again--
take your sons
to fish in me--
reel in my body--
the blue-lipped
boy who tried
so hard to 
grow gills &
somehow became
an unassuming
man-made lake 
for everyone's father
to teach them how
to fish

i'm imagining 
you reading this
on the bus-- head 
against the window
while the city plays
itself like film reel--
the snow is melting
& i'm right there
with it--
when i started my
car last night 
it breathed fog
from its mouth
like a dragon--
there are so many
dragons out
there tonight--
shaking street salt
off their bones--
this poem is crawling
into bed with you--
this poem is
making too many promises
this poem is me
sitting across
from you on the bus
without knowing 
it-- our bodies--
reject gravity
& determine
to meet-- oh
somewhere you 
are off being
soft without me--
i'll show you
how i melt--
i'll show you 
how an object
enters the atmosphere--
have i told
you how much 
i love sidewalk chalk
or about how
sometimes
i believe
the moon is following
me-- moving
clouds
to peer down 
at my queer body 
fishing for
broken headlights--
maybe i'm right
& maybe you 
will read this
poem on a bus--
i am a radio
tower-- blinking
red with 
anticipation--
my hands are
cold & waiting
to turn over
stones under your
skin-- if the power
goes out
we can make mischief--
cut free the 
stars so
they can live out
their august
dreams of 
being fire flies
even if only
for a night--