my father & i buy ice

i was twelve &
in the heat of
july my father drove
me up the street
in his senile blue
jeep to go
buy ice at the 
kutztown bottling
works--
i craved the
walk-in freezer--
day-dreamed of
her wideness--
her rows of
straight white
teeth--
the beer store
worker with his
stubble & loose
grey t-shirt
would take the first
key from his key ring
to unlatch
the door-- 
cold breath 
emanating-- tundra
thumbed-- polar
bear promises
echoed
across my prickled
goose bump skin--
my father would
send me inside--
the scout--
i proceeded on
horse back
into the wasteland
of bagged ice--
set to return
to sweaty-palmed 
summer reverberating
off the pavement--
to my father's 
tin foil
car with hot
seats & broken
rear view mirrors--
there i
meandered deeper
i imagined
staying in the 
freezer-- pushing the 
door shut &
living among to
haphazard mountains
of artificial
ice & i thought
of all the miracles
of stillness
& how maybe with
the door shut i could
finally stop time 
long enough to
think-- i was twelve
& my stomach
was round with
cinnamon raisin
bagels & i was scared
of my skin & 
becoming a middle-
schooler & having
to fall in love
soon-- i was
scared of how quickly
midnights
gave themselves away
& whether or
not the ice would
melt
before we got home
& if i would
melt along with it--
the first time we visited
the walk-in freezer my
father shut the door
to show how 
there was a safety 
lock--
to prove that if
the door ever
shut behind
us that we wouldn't freeze
to death--
i wished life
had more
safety locks &
more walk in
freezers where time
could go & lay itself
down in bags-- 
fabricated mountains--
i grabbed a handful 
of ice & chewed--
taking the freezer into
my body-- giving
up all claims i
had to time--
this was of course
before i met you 
& much much before
i met myself
but i understand her--
coveting the coldness--
her father calling from
the other side
of the thick shut door
& her wondering
if there was anywhere 
to hide so that
she could stay longer--
she wanted to
take apart her
bones & her fat &
lay there as a 
bag of
ice-- unable 
to dissolve
in the graceless
heat of the sun
scolding her from
above-- skin
tinged red--
headache a jingle of
the key ring
& the door
swung open again--
my father walked inside 
& took me by the hand--
i lied &
said the safety 
latch was stuck 
& he slung a sack
of ice over his shoulder--
the cold persisted
through
my body the 
whole drive home 
& i sat on our porch--
sensing my
bones returning 
from ice--
& this was before
you knew me 
but if you happen
upon a walk in
freezer 
step
inside for me-- 
feel time resign--
your blood turn
to black ice 
in the drive way
you can have
my brown brown
eyes & my
goose-bump gravel
skin--
next time
my father won't
be there to open
the door--
& summer won't 
wait with eager
insults
& i will sculpture
myself 
still 

will you teach me how to fall asleep?

every so many
nights i forget again
what sleep is
& i lay awake with
the color of the ceiling
getting harsher &
harsher above my head--
heart vanishing into
moths with no light
to fly towards--
the darkness of my room
takes on the body
of the mountains--
looming--framing
the sky--
clenched knuckles
white--
above me i 
watch you become
a hole in the ozone--
the ceiling 
a kind of wound
to let in
our ultra violet sex--
will you teach 
me how to fall
asleep again-- press
your warm thumbs 
over my eye-lids
& teach me how
deep we can
each trip behind
our own shut eyes--
what kind of darkness
is there to
stumble upon?
what kind of rocks
will tremble
in me?
i'm asking you
because i trust you--
because i know 
that sleep has escaped
from you too--
in all different
wave lengths--
left our bodies
sun burnt
in shadow-- 
love me red &
throbbing--
do you remember
who first taught
you to sleep?
i think it was
the god hypnos--
his cave guarded 
by poppies--
cancerous soldiers-- 
forgetfulness
flowing--
the river lethe--
there in his
ebony bed-- devoid of
light & sound 
there was nothing
left to do but
to discover
sleep & in doing
so claims half of
our lives--
the reflection--
oh live in these
mirrors
with me i want
to be opposite
tonight--
take my hand when
we walk into 
his grotto--
if you forget
my voice replace 
it in your memory
with the 
drip of melted
snow
from the roof--
i will remember yours
as the sound of
moth wings 
beneath my
ribs--
is your bed made
of ebony &
do you eat poppies
to fall asleep--
help me peel off
my skin--
oh i feel like a snake
& when we 
wake up there 
will be no
more ozone &
we will live
red & scratch
ourselves
open again &
again
but for now i
want to bask
in your stillness--
your imageless
soundless
form-- lurking
with me in the 
birth place
of all of our
first sleeps--
oh & thinking
of you how it
that even here
i feel the sun's
deadly
bright eyes
eviscerate me--
leave
me flowing
forgetful
over the knuckles
of the rocks--
what was your name
& is it you
who will teach me 
how to fall 
asleep?
you with your 
skeleton
overtaking
the ceiling--
the heavens were
always a type
of scar
to be had--
this time when
i lay down in 
bed i'll remember
you & me
& our lost anatomy 
in his grotto--
heavy
weary with
travel--
when you find sleep
again will
you please
come back--
bite my ear--
kiss my neck--
i would give
up
all light & sound
for the warmth
of your body--
i'll be
waiting
for you--
break through
the mirror
& spend your 
seven
years of bad 
luck in a dream
with me--
sleep tastes 
metallic--
trickle of
blood--
snow thaw

if i fall asleep while
driving

i hope i dream
of us-- of
the highways of
your hair &
the knots in our
tongues--
i hope my car 
somersaults like
me in the grass
when i was 7
& just learning
how to flip the world
upside down--
we all loved
hour glasses &
trying to perform 
hand stands-- back 
against the wall--
crash into
the corn field--
fracture the windows--
feed the tires
to the krakens--
the deer 
will find me
somewhere
through 
the night sky--
crash of 
stained glass
& drop of the moon
on the dining room
floor-- 
on Old Mill road--
did you hear it
shatter &
did you hear me
fall asleep?
it was as loud
as the snow--
a quiet series of
kisses & regrets--
my eyes just
envelops 
to shut & send
you all 
the thousands
of ways i've 
see you-- when
you read my letters
do so 
in the open air
so that those pieces of
my soul can climb
back up into 
the clouds--
do you feel 
all the high beams
gleaming from
your body?
last night my
car was warm & 
i closed my
eyes at stop lights--
telling myself
that i could nod
off for
just one moment
just one moment 
& i wanted someone
to take over-- to drive
me home
while
i leaned the passenger
seat back & slept
through the 
rolling shoulders
of Pennsylvania--
no one wants to
drive themselves
home-- 
if i fall asleep 
while driving--
drift 
into the adjacent 
lane-- rapture
in someone else's 
headlights-- i hope
you know that my
evaporation
will be sudden &
painless
like the martyrdom 
of deer
jumping out of the woods
at precisely 
the wrong times--
loving you
was like swerving
to miss
a doe-- her
glassy coal eyes
brandished 
in the middle of
the road--
loving you was like
falling asleep 
at the wheel--
the chaos of 
warmth-- the thrill
of
open windows in
winter-- 
my goose bump 
skin heavy with
gravel--
i pull over
to pick up the
fragments of the moon--
how will we know 
when the sky 
is new without
her? how
will the waves of
our bodies
know to come back
to shore?
i wanted to 
call you-- tell
you to talk to me
so that i didn't
fall asleep
but i also wanted
to temp my body--
see how much
i wanted to 
drive home-- how
much i wanted 
to wake up
tomorrow in
the carcass of
a vehicle-- 
corn field stubble
of my legs--
the deer
huddled around
me-- wondering 
how it was that
a human
could sleep
while moves so fast--
they teach me to
have four
legs & they carve
out hunks of
night-sky for
my eyes &
i become enamored
of headlights--
craving your
high beams
in my body--
if i fall asleep
while i'm driving
home come look for
me & when you
find my over-turned
green volvo
that is where you start
walking-- wait for 
night fall--
i'll be the deer--
breath pouring
mist into
bare december

tail-lights

& you said
that that all
those tail-lights
looked like
strings of christmas
lights lit up
for miles ahead--
red flicker &
blink
in the snow turning
grey--
slush beneath tire--
it's too early
for it to stick--
ground warm
from our boots
& our anixous
cross-walking afternoon--
somehow whenever
we get lost
in the city
it snows & i'm forced
to remember
kissing you in
your driveway &
every light 
grows bolder--
flashing off 
layer after layer
of white-- who
trusted the buildings
to grow so high 
around us? how
trusted
us to become
so old now-- with
our dry chapped hands
& dislocated homes--
when i say i want
to go home i mean
i want to be warm
& to be someone
not stopping
& going-- somewhere
with a windowsill
to lean on & watch
the snow from--
pretend that 
it will all never melt
or turn to ugly
slush seeping into
my socks--
when i say
i want to go home
i think i'm thinking
of my bed & my
three layers of blankets 
& my uncleaned coffee
mug still in the sink--
it's the tiny things
you realize you miss
when you're stuck
in christmas lights--
entangled in
each other-- how long have
we been tail-lights
& how red are we now?
& are the other
cars around us real
or just a large amount
of ghosts also traveling
home from philadelphia 
against their better judgement
on a friday night--
peer into
their windows-- their
shadow mothers faces
pale in iPhone light--
children with their
noses pressed to back
windows-- breathe
fog-- finger print--
their radio-less sounds--
their silent-- pantomime
lives-- each seem
to move slower & slower--
oh i believe
in all these ghosts--
will they follow
me home when i figure
out where that
is? will they 
roll down their
windows & let
the snow over come them--
that what i want to
do-- open the doors &
abandon the car
in the middle of 
the grey grey 
highway-- weave
between ghost
to the side of the road
where the massive
silhouette of
the city smiles
down at her front
porch of tail-lights--
hands in her pockets--
sky-scrapers tall--
she teaches us
how to fall gently
like snow or
sea gull feathers--
feet held up 
by water-- we transverse
the schuykill river
& boat house row
gives us her
murky grin--
wet socks drying
on the heater--
we are home in our
christmas light veins
& somewhere the
car still rolls forward--
ushered along by the other
ghosts on the 
express--
every time we 
go into the city
it snows & we can't
escape but yes i still
think of kissing
you-- blizzard blinded
by love or
maybe it was
just the snow--
follow my tail-lights
home

did i catch you in my fishnets?

& did you thrash?
skin & scale--
the school of tuna
with their pencils
in their mouths-- writing
poems about non-conformity 
on the bellies of
the blue whales--
skin graffiti under-
water where the sun is
a bleary-drunk dream
& you felt
me around you--
constricting-- black
mesh squeeze body--
try to kiss me
through the net--
you were the dolphin i
snagged by accident--
the one we pointed 
at from the shoreline--
blue back flashing
between wave
& sun & no 
one believed
in you-- we swore
you were just another
swell or a mermaid 
tempting
us to swim
out past the sand bar--
laughing with
the round bellies of
the gulls--
i waded in
neck-deep & that
was when
i caught you &
you never asked
to be let go--
i'm a emerald-gleaming
python-- 
grip tightening
while you inhale
& inhale until
there is no room
for air
& of course you
grew gills for
me-- pulled
us under water where
no one has
a face & salt sting
in your eyes--
love is blinded &
ripe-tide torrent--
here is where
blue became blue--
snagged 
on a cloudy day 
where there were
at least vaporous 
bodies
to jostle into--
if you hadn't been
so graceful  out
there-- skin 
evincing sun 
revealing the beautiful
simplicity of
our tiny tiny
sky-- so close
that the dolphins
swim on into it
when humans get
bored
of searching for
them on the horizon--
i took my fish nets
off leg by leg
& let them float
off into the water--
i missed them--
the way the
world swarmed 
me when i showed
how easy it
would be for 
a big fish to
swallow me-- my tight
skin & tune-fish scales--
school thrumming
on either side--
i feel the others
in my stomach--
the pulse of
their oceans 
growing quieter--
how long
did it take you
to remember the school
of fish who once 
formed your body?
do you still remember
becoming whole again?
all those gaping
lid-less eyes blinking
in the reflection
of the moon
on the water--
she rises-- fish-net
faced & dripping--
picks us up
in her pale hands
& asks us
what boys & girls
are doing swimming
out past the sand bar
in december--
blue-lipped & marbel
skinned-- 
you mistook yourself
for god &
i mistook myself
again for
a fisher of men--
nets growing back
across
my legs like
ivy-- like vine--
like the good slut--
i hope you
get
caught again--
i liked it when
we were tangled 
so close--
straining in 
the blood-shot
eyed sun--
my father
lines his beer
bottles
up by the side
of the bed-- 
my mother-- cuts
off my fish-
nets & knows
they 
will grow back--
oh lover--
will you
learn what
it means to
be narrow
with me?

what day is it?

no i don't mean
day of the week
or #
i mean what day 
is it?
what did the
stars tell you
when they perched
on the telephone
wires?
they laughed & 
dropped feathers
that were also snow--
did you open
your mouth to catch them?
what day is it?
is this the day 
you start sleep walking
again?
meandering
up the side road
& into the carcass
of that house
with boarded up
windows-- some
days i feel like
a house with
boarded up windows &
feral cats
living in 
my ankles-- dandelions 
burst through my
floors-- reaching--
yearning to become
trees or telephone
wires
so they could
listen to the
conversation i had
with friends from
fifth grade
when you had to wait
till 9am to use the
home phone--
practice your greeting
in the reverberation
of the bath tub &
her mirrors--
what day is it?
is today the day 
i jumped out
the second story
window-- or the one
when i climbed
up on our slanted roof
& wondered if
the fall would break
me &
i tumbled down
scale & shingle--
is today the
day i slept
on the scratchy carpet
of my bed room?
joints burning
like apples-- how
red was my sunrise
& how many of
my conversations
are still living in
the telephone wires?
somewhere i am
asking Karl to come
over so that we
can play with my 
new video camera--
yank movies
from backyard--
we will someday 
be great film directors
& if not then
of course we will
be myth busters &
we will be on the discovery
channel-- painting
the global-logo
in the bottom left-hand
corner of the screen--
when i wake up i will
take the boards off
the windows
so the sun can be
as vermilion & vicious
as it wants--
follow the faded
pages
of the sidewalk--  
one way that i 
track down the day is
by checking a book
out from the library--
they'll have to use 
the rubber stamp--
turning to the back  
pocket i will
follow the numbers
until i find the day 
this particular book
will be late 
because i in fact
am at least consistent
in my lateness of
library books--
is it that day then?
the day a library 
book was late?
the day you were late
again to come
visit but oh
how it made me
love you harder--
i beg you to trust
is people with
overdue
library books &
just know they're trying--
i'm trying--
today is a day i'm
trying & i'm sorry 
for the maraschino-cherry
morning & 
the laughing of
the stars &
the crows 
eating poison berries
from my hair--
i'm trying-- 
yes today i'm trying
trying to tight rope
balance-- your
knees were river rocks--
you made fun of
me for saying 
you wrists remind
me of door knobs--
i'm sorry-- i
was only trying
to find a way  to say
that you are the
door i always want
to open--
that you can 
twist me--
take your
shoes off on
the porch--
today might have
been the day that
we turned each
other-- 
i could be mistaken--
it's been at least
seven over due
library books
since i've seen 
you--
if you happen
upon a telephone
wire & you hear my
old voice i
would want her to
know
i'm trying &
i want you
to know 
i'm trying 
& today is a day--
i'll wait 
laying on
the carpet--
stomach towards 
the moon--
what kind
are you?

they'll call you goldilocks &
you'll eat cold porridge

& they'll call
you goldilocks when
you cry your
eyes red &  
climb up
the carpet staircase
to the forest--
your hair is neither
gold nor silver but
a dull-straw blonde
from bleaching
it one too many times--
your feel like 
kindling-- like
another bundle
of sticks & you'll
assume heaven is 
in one of 
those boxes
in the attic-- the
ones we never
bothered to unpack
even though we've lived
on noble street
for decades now--
grip the banister
& say a pray sent
from your blue DS--
from PictoChat--
a plea
scrawled in electronic  
ink-- are
there any saints
for you to
send messages to?
do they write back?
you can flip
your screen around
& use it as
a flashlight
while you search
for the light switch
all four
up the attic stairs 
to the forest
with the little cottage--
smoke pouring
from chimney-- 
you're hungry--
you're hungry
like all girls
with hair
made of kindling 
with game-boy-lit
faces with
11:11 wishes 
sticky-note written
on the bed room
walls-- 
does your god
feed you?
you're hungry 
for porridge &
saints & reaching
into card board
boxes to see if your
mother packed away
heaven up there--
in tissue paper or
maybe in the crate
with all the 
porcelain dolls 
still in their
wilting boxes--
you find a house
in the woods as
the story goes--
as the story always has
gone-- 
your body
walks in 
the front door
without you-- 
this time
you eat the cold
porridge because
you want to feel sorry
for yourself 
& you know 
the mama bear won't
mind-- she's used
to sharing--
you can't eat it
all even though
you're still hungry--
hungry
like the bare-naked
plowed
fields that bristle
like your own
haphazardly shaved
thighs-- 
corn husk & stalk--
you're not
sure what you're hungry
for 
so your skin
looks for a resting
place & sits
in the smallest
chair because
you've heard the
story before &
you know you
have to break
it to pieces--
up the creaky stairs
to the bed room
you lay on the hardest
bed & tuck
your knees into
your chest--
ribs press on
wood press on the
thumb print of
your skeleton--
what use is heaven
in the bottom
of a card board box
& there the forest
grew thick & 
hungry--
& you wait for
the bears to
come-- to come
eat you up--
to come bite
your straw hair--
dry & brittle--
to find heaven we
will have to give
into the teeth & to
the open windows
& to the cold porridge
on the kitchen counter--
share with your mother--
she is only trying to
help--
the bears aren't
coming-- this is your
own attic & 
you light your DS screen--
your own bed is hard
& beneath you
the rocking
chair shattered--
shards still stuck
in your spine-- oh
they will call you goldilocks
& you will knock
over a box of forest--
heaven was not
found in
a day 

hand-sanitizer & other
alternatives to
holy water 

cuticle-sting-- 
clamor-- din in
each paper cut
compromise left in
my hands-- oh 
if you do not
have holy water or
a church you can
visit 
you can always
substitute hand-
sanitizer-- across
your palms & round
your wrists--
that's where the 
germs try to
creep back up your hand 
again & in middle school
that was when everyone
started to worry
if they were sanitary--
did we go
mad in the white neon
across linoleum?
we each wondered
how we managed to 
get so dirty &
i stood
front & center
to the baptismal
foundation each
Saturday mass to
dip middle & index 
finger in cold 
water-- lady bug
floating
to the surface--
drowned in
the veins of god--
take your hand sanitizer
& make the sign of
the cross--
your forehead--
cross your heart twice
for safe keeping--
how did we get
so open-mouth
dirty? 
& i would feel
the cool gel--
aseptic & lucid
in between my fingers--
fingers dry &
sidewalk-cracking--
winter smudged 
my finger prints 
& poured 
hand sanitizer over
my long brown hair 
& in the girl's 
bathroom i would
stand-- soaking
paper towels 
in hand sanitizer
& dabbing them
between each stand--
they girls had
said i had greasy 
hair-- that i
should wash myself
more & 
as they said
this my nose prickled
with their sterile
holy-water
small-- palms
& wrists--
burn me clean--
singe each 
fiber of hair
until the baptismal
fountain over flows
& the floor
of the church is
slippery
& the lady bugs
gasp for
air-- here's the 
thing
about holy water
& hand sanitizer--
they only leave
you feeling like
you need to
wash again &
again & again
& back then 
i would take three
showers a day
in the hopes the
other girls would
survey
my body one
day &  find me empty--
prisitine
enough to her skin
alone--
if you do not
have holy water
the pain throbbing
in your frayed fingers
is worth 
immaculation--
the process of
learning that there
is no part
of a girl's body
that is allowed
to not 
hum with dull
pain--
oh & the boys were
dirty too
& in 7th grade
we all 
sanitized
the cuts-- 
peeled away  
scabs to 
let blood seep
into the baptismal
fountain 
how dare you let
god see
you so like
this-- your blood
in the water
will bring sharks
oh i say
let them
come-- i'm
unclean & 
am un-needing of
a substitute for
holy water--
my god has
soil under
his finger-nails--
that's where 
he grew me--
black asphalt
girt &
backyard
muck
if you are
out of holy water
you can substitute 
the rain puddles
in the 
driveway--

how weightless?

i ran my white shoes
to pieces-- 
soul peel-
ing free-- rubber
tearing & laces
gripping tightly
to a god of double
knots & gravel trails--
white-knuckles & desperate
i pulled them off
to rest in
the corner-- mud
caked in their teeth--
they tell each other
stories of 
the taste of
sidewalks & the 
wet love of august
rain-- heavy with
my coat-hanger body--
i listen but
i don't ask questions--
will they remember 
the time we all
sat as one
perched on the limestone
rocks towards
north lookout--
will they remember
my fear of snakes
& the boy who 
i loved the idea of--
when i fall
asleep will they 
tug each other's
tongue to whisper--
recount the first
times i wore them-- 
their skin tense 
with holding me as
we learned to run--
what kind of lover
teaches you how
to escape-- 
to sprint
into tabernacle 
forest--
unafraid of
never returning--
i could never
dispose of them--
my white sneaks--
stones lodged
in their teeth-- 
laughing again 
about how often
i tripped on the gritty
shores of Maine
where we stepped
& snapped blue sea glass
beneath us--
i'm always like this
i can never part 
with shoes & at
my parents
house i have a closet 
full of such ghosts--
clamoring over
each other-- searching
for their mirror-halves--
grey boots &
bear-foot slippers 
& orphaned flip-flops
& my first pair
of chuck taylors--
sharpie scribble
poetry & street
chewed shoe laces--
there are questions 
i am saving for
them each--
like if they could feel
the weightlessness
in the way a seven
year old girl walks
& how many times
i listened to Sargent
Pepper & if
i was only a refraction
of rainbow light
gleaming from
the surface of a CD--
maybe they get
each other's stories
confused from sitting
there for so long--
maybe my grey suede
boots forget 
pink gum on the 
floor of the mall--
forget sweaty 
feet of spring--
do my chuck taylors
remember the 
ecstasy of a distortion
peddle & Dad
trying to teach us how
to work the hi-hat--
do they hum with
their thread-bare
tongues--
link laces &
share the same
exhilaration of 
carrying a body--
i know 
it is inevitable
that i will
eventually
have to get rid of
them all & their
thin faces
& chapped lips--
that eventually
their stories
will
blur into
my own callous
heels & my
new shoes
doe-eyed & wide-open
in the headlights
of a skeleton
like mine-- still
picking thumb tacks
from his heels--
clasping me
they plead
for us
to take a walk--
to run &
teach them 
the bell chime of
my knees--the 
quick pace of my
breath thick
with frost--the 
heaviness of
the clouds coming
to perch on my shoulders--
i know
the way they
gather
of stories
is also 
their fixed trajectory
toward the back of the 
closet-- the corner
of the room
just like my
white sneakers 
still 
rambling
about 
the tops of
mountains--
will you sleep
when i do?
will you 
tell me what
ground my feet
belong?
keep my soul
from thinning--

staring

re-learn how
to blink--
kiss windows--
inhale backwards--
descend skyward
& take me with you--
i feel myself 
dying again &
it starts with the
rancorous creases
of my white bed room
walls 
today i'm wildly sick
of snow & all of
it's cliches-- 
i lay hover in
my room-- eyes
peeled open by the 
gaping mouth
of death-- his laugh
a kind of fear that
turns bodies
into wind chimes--
perched in every corner--
he smiles &
eats a bag of 
popcorn
while he surveys my
routine-- my 
hurried scribbling
of poem fragments--
rolling out my pink
yoga mat to 
try to tame my skin
& my heart--
i flurry like
the snow-- uneven--
sporadic
& when i was seven
i remember the thrill
of pressing the first 
tiny foot print in
the back yard 
piled with snow-- a
pristine metaphor
for innocence or something
like that--
opened my mouth
let ice crystals
land on
my tongue-- 
parachutes 
deployed & 
melting fast-- they
said their farewells 
as they slide 
down my throat--
some survived to pose
on my glasses & 
freckled cheeks
before slipping
into water--
did i think about
death then or
is this a new thing?
is it because i'm gay?
& will i slip
into water
on the asphalt 
in the morning?
i keep my head
down when i leave
out the back door--
ignore the snow
as if it's symbolism
can't touch me 
if i don't give it
any attention--
oh all that romance--
each individual 
fragment of frost
sacrificing themselves
on my cheeks--
i want to turn
the sun down
like a volume knob 
so that i can 
pull the blinds shut
& sleep this all away
oh death with 
his blankets &
his blank stare--
i have to watch him
i have to watch him
or he'll move
from the corner--
open his cracked
lips to laugh at me--
laugh the back porch with
storm-- laugh
my windows open
& laugh the freckles
off my face-- back
into snowflakes
where they came from--
where is the blizzard
i was born in
& is she still watching--
will she come back
for me when my time
comes to blink 
long & forever?
i step outside--
close 
eyes-- lift my
head & open
my mouth--
the snow tastes metallic
like blood
& aluminum foil