9 degrees outside-- wind striking matches on my red face-- punishing us for holding hands while she is so vast & cold & lonely-- tonight i envy the weather of Pennsylvania-- how unforgivingly volatile she lives-- inflicting all kind of sadness-- i think of how winter has a way of making me want to be smaller & maybe it's because i'm discovering the thinness of my own skin-- my own body a piece of orbit-- there must (of course) be smaller galaxies to live in-- i opened the door of my closet to find a spiral one had taken shelter there-- ripping my sweaters from their hangers-- eating left socks & snapping my candles-- clumsy playing with matches-- i tell him he can stay as long as he doesn't get bigger-- as long as he remains small enough to sleep in my palm-- & he promises & i know he's lying-- we are all so incapable of stillness-- even now i can hear the moan of the door frame as he tugs at the hinges-- hungry for metal nails & brass nobs-- he is so young but tonight he will grow too large for my ceiling-- i ask him if i can try it-- if i can try life as a tiny comet or meteor or moon & he laughs because we both know it would never work-- he knots my socks before he leaves out the windows in a cascade of frost & for a moment i leave the windows open to let the largeness of the house breathe-- i yawn too-- i wonder how many suns there are caught in my teeth-- i want to let myself live on smaller galaxies on nights like this-- orbit quickly-- watch the sun leap frog from horizon to horizon-- blink nights away-- pirouette-- walk outside in cold january so the weather can be less alone--
01/07
chandelier street light dream this is a sleepless poem-- a mouth kissed hungry full of questions-- what dreams do you remember when you are alone? the ones vivid enough to walk back to? does your story have a prologue-- an author's note? a dedication page? oh if we were books this would be so simple-- spine to spine on a shelf-- book mark me-- i don't number my pages-- i have an index made of smooth stones-- right now my heart is left with your foot prints-- you pace the ceilings of my eyelids-- i grip a glass chandelier in my teeth-- faint clink of crystal on crystal-- you had to have know you were laying yourself down into a poem being so damn beautiful-- here alone i think about everything i want to know about you-- how would you describe the taste of snow? when was the last time you stood ankle-deep in water? do you still believe in the ocean? i'm filling the planets with air again at the gas station up the street from my house-- they've been shrinking-- i can't stop them from turning back into pennies-- oxidizing on our sidewalks-- let's be teal & wild-- let's break windows with baseballs-- let's tear up the floor boards to make a campfire-- steal the night sky for a tent-- shadow puppet me into a parable-- the parable of the boy turned into a statue in the frozen heat of january-- when was the last time you let your heart become a storm cloud? do you have thunder in you? a blizzard? the audacious hum of sleet? when i come down i fall all at once-- a summer bass drum-- cymbal-tongued-- have i told you about how much i used to sing in the shower & how i hid bubble gum beneath my pillow? next time i see you i hope i get to hold you longer-- open umbrellas in your rib cage-- there are so many eyes in this storm i forget that somewhere again it is raining-- i have a pocket full of change that was once all the planets in the solar system-- let's meet on mars-- red & loud-- i can buy you a parking meter, a 23 hour day, & every street lamp on your block to kiss under-- i haven't opened your medicine cabinet but i assume that's where you keep your constellations-- the sky tucked behind your reflection-- next time you go to sleep take a handful of dimes-- spend me on a highway-- oh if my hair was long again i could follow it home-- there are beds somewhere on the moon you know & maybe even a nightlight? what i mean to say is i'm awake & it's too late to un-write this poem i've been living it's about meeting you & i can't decide if you're meant to read it yet-- we happen in fragments-- in rear view mirrors-- parallel parked on a stop sign-- this city was a chandelier-- laughing as i left it-- does your mouth write poems without you? do you think of holding me like i think of holding you?
01/06
werewolf: an origin story first kiss-- first hand slide down the back of my jeans-- first boy who left his shadow plastered on brick walls-- oh, is there always a first of everything? a first human & egret & blue whale? each a handfuls of bones finding each other-- following sinews & together taking a deep ragged breath-- jaws snatching a fist of air-- all the animals birth from the collaboration of carbon-- born from god's great wooden spoon-- who stirred you? measured you out into the metal mixing bowl-- i remember the small soft hands of my mother as she kneaded down dough on the floured counter top-- let the yeast inhale-- taller & taller i think werewolves of are different-- less of a species & more a kind of organ-- a kind of midnight-- he had a way of chewing me when we kissed-- a way of breaking me down to bite-sized pieces-- horderves-- my bones were a bag of marbles & in my room was the first place i felt the howl-- starting beneath the skin-- a sort of quake in each hair follicle-- an involuntary refusal of silence-- ripped open my lips-- howling till my windows shattered & the moon too was an open mouth biting between hot hot stars-- spitting them out as fire-- once this began i could feel them stalking inside him-- their yellow eyes & thick thick brown fur-- they were there in the way he grabbed me by a handful of hair-- in his parasitic kisses across my neck & the heavy animal smell of his bare body-- our sweat in the summer was a kind of rain-- in it thunder & the baying of dormant fur-- i could see his canines only as white flashes as he came up for air from inside me-- this is in fact a first love poem-- this is in fact about the betrayal of our own skin & the mischievous laugh of full moons & the clawing that paced until they scratched open our chests-- there was a strength to his grip that was at times inhuman & at times gentle & unknowing-- i let my body fade into a comma-- a coiled pause on the floor of a bed room no longer my own-- i love my werewolf-- i love how she taught me how to drink the white milk of the moon-- shouted my skin monstrous & unafraid-- a kind of howl that snapped the necks of all the trees he had ever made me fuck him under-- & still when i feel small sometimes i howl-- shake the earth just enough to remind myself how loud my body is-- oh this is a story about how monstorous you are-- this is a story about the moon & a story about watching for the flash of his sharp canines-- eyes yellow as candles
01/05
the taste of snow being snowed in alone makes me think of everyone you could//should be snowed in with-- there you are, sitting on the kitchen counter while i chop yellow & red cherry tomatoes-- there you are again standing on the ceiling-- you always were the type to laugh a gravity-- i'll be down here-- pacing down the spines of these books-- ricochet of my own thoughts off the white walls-- it was subtle but the house itself was my body & your body & the knees of my grandmothers-- the rear view mirror of blue jeep that feel off years ago-- i opened the bathroom window to feel the brisk blush of air as the foundation left earth-- look what you've done-- you've gone & un-tethered us-- no creek or snap of pipes-- this is a certain type of being alone-- this is the kind of alone where the faucets start to know your name & the shower head bleeds meteors-- hot fire rocks down the drain-- i wash myself in comets that leave bruises on my back-- you come in with me & push me against the misty wall-- bite my neck like licorice rope-- i need to know if you were here tonight or if i conjured you from my own loneliness-- if you were really there-- meandering across the ceiling-- pointing out the spider webs full of dried moths-- i have been thinking about how this snow changes me-- the kind of terrified nostalgia-- i see myself as a little girl on all fours crawling across the backyard-- i am also a fox or a wolf-- i see myself building a snowman for a father-- he has one course red mitten & a fleece scarf-- he spits out bottle caps that get lost in the driveway-- she eats snow from her bare pink hands-- like cotton candy & from the window i imitate her-- taste steel & aluminum foil-- was that you on the third floor? were you walking back & forth? come down here & wrap yourself in covers with me-- we don't have to remember who we are to each other-- we'll swallow snow & watch ourselves becoming more alone as the window peels off our front step-- oh how vivid the sun will look when she finds her way out from behind the grey-- i hope you're here when i wake up-- whoever you are
01/04
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
