stick your neck out

i'm ready to be charcuterie.
get the tiny knife to do the trick.
there are not enough ghosts 
for us to round up anymore.
we'll have to make some. i'll use
the tub. i'll use the binoculars.
our neighbors are home from
wherever they go in their big truck.
i wonder if they think about us
when they're gone or if they 
pretend they do not live on
a winding road on the edge of everything.
the mountain is on fire. my mountain
is on fire. by "my" i don't mine 
"this is what i own" but instead,
"this is what holds me." i've started to make
the big calculations. how much danger
are i ready for? i watch the news 
& they are plucking people from
the ground like eagles & rodents. 
i know i'm just a field mouse
who learned how to text. my neck
starts to grow. not like a giraffe but
like a goose. i buy bigger & bigger hoodies.
my partner says, "this is enough."
that is the problem though. there is 
always another person who needs
a ride. there is always another way
to be fed. he locks the door at night
so i don't keep going out flying. the geese
are in full force. they are not going
anywhere. no more migrations.
the government said we don't get
to leave anymore. i make a burn pile.
my head reaches the sunset. fills my mouth
with orange creamsicle. i'm ready
for the carving. when they jar my head
i hope i turns into gooseberry jam.
that i feed someone & they cannot shake
the urge to do the same. my partner
buys a kite. sends it up with a note
that says, "i made dinner." the night
has all the men still working. the fork
is never long enough to reach my mouth.
i do not eat but i know it tastes so good. 

salt lick

i get waterfall mouth. no one
is going to take the sky from me.
i've watched movers come
& remove our bones pile by pile.
we showed them the holy stone.
how it thrummed like a vein
of fish. the taste of salt like a twin knife.
one in the teeth & one in the dirt.
i will take my risks. come to where
my body calls. sometimes it is
in the den of guns. other times 
it is on the side of the road
where no one remembers.
hitchhikers join us in partaking. 
a bent knee. a wooden moon. 
i mistake real trains for ghost trains
& ghost trains for real trains.
there is not always enough time.
get in get out is the advice i give.
it's not comforting to know you are
feasting in the realm of meat
but since when has a body been 
about comfort? 
for prey, our bodies are 
a site of betrayals.
call of the stones. waves far away 
eating at our hooves. i want a tongue
i can turn into a bomb. turn over
& there is the shiny destruction.
decades ago men filled the mountain
with dynamite. salt burst into the sky.
we opened our mouths.
closed our eyes. ate. 

bird bath 

if i were a better poet i would
tell you the truth. i know we're all
past wanting that though. i used to have
a bird bath in my bedroom. i left my window
open to the world. first it was just chickadees
& wrens who came. then larger & larger birds.
a hawk & a vulture. then the impossible birds.
the pterodactyls & boys. my father lives now
in my childhood bedroom & i don't know
if there is still a bird bath. i hope there is
for his sake. who or what
does he invite? we have always been
the same. prone to secrets. collectors.
rocks & feathers & exoskeletons. yesterday
at an intersection in my hometown
i saw a person i used to know. he was driving.
or maybe he wasn't. i have invented him
places before. in new york, once i  thought i could
run into another boy who lived there. one in
millions. we are not as rare as we would like
to think. the orbits that run us. then there was
a bird bath again & the boy was in the bath
& i was weeping. i remember so little 
about him now. i keep boys like rosary beads.
my thumb runs over them always 
in the hopes of getting away. i have never
washed myself there, instead, i've always let
the baths be for other creatures. 
when i got home i thought about his car.
a burnt orange. i thought about the chickadees
& how they kept me company when i was dying.
there is never enough water to wash away
what you do not want to remember.
this is not the ritual of the birds. i ask them
what what they bring to the water 
& they say, "this is not water." i do not know
what they mean. i have driven to the ocean.
found a parking spot & walked out
to the big bird bath. the gulls turning
into boys. the boy driving away. his long fingers
curled around the steering wheel 
as if it were a wrist. 

discount apples 

i want to be told i am still edible 
even after the rot. i want to be 
cored & sung to. made into 
a sickly sweet cake or used to lure
the pigs away from the edge of the world.
i have always been a disciple 
of the discount sections at the grocery store.
when i see my brother we compare deals.
he shows me old valentines day candy 
& i show him bags of apples. 
holy brown trampolines pooling
on their flesh. so much still good.
ringing white flesh. soft skin. 
the trees they came from sleep on daycare mats 
& dream of their fruit. in order to survive
i think we have to imagine our seeds
as always somewhere better than us.
a grove on the moon. limbs heavy with sugar. 
i return always to the produce aisle's neon light.
an inverted halo. my dad used to work in produce
for years. he sorted away the unsalvagables. 
the brown bananas & the wormed apples.
i cut off the worst spots with a pairing knife.
process my bags of gala apples. 
feed those bad bits to the chickens who 
delight. i don't want someone to do this
to me. i want them to place me in the sink.
wash my face tenderly. look
at my ugly parts & still eat me whole. 
arsenic teeth & all. i do not do this. 
instead i eat half apples until 
they are gone. the sound of the grocery lights 
still buzzing like a swarm behind my eyes. 

dumpster cathedral 

i want to be more useless. i am so sick 
of waking up next to wrenches & screw drivers.
rust under my fingernails. 
i don't want to save anyone but
especially not myself. i want to be dumpster bound.
to find home among the rats 
& the mildew blooms. to get real rancid
& have someone pick me up like
a carcass & say, "this has to go."
i am a disciple of the trash. i see its holiness
even if no one else can. trash is divine 
not because it was made useless but because
it is still alive. there is a landfill 
up the road from me. the deer go to pray
over the debris. wrappers & broken televisions.
all the people waste. i pick through 
the garbage. the dumpsters come like
cathedrals, dumping new congregations into 
the mountain. we sift & find costume jewelry 
& even a knife without teeth. frolic
knowing none of it is gone. weeds grow
from handfuls of mashed potatoes 
& rotten oranges. dandelions are my favorites.
each a little rowdy sun. the light
whispering all through the night. the moon,
gone to do her nighttime skin care routine.
we hold mass. break phantom bread.
no one is there to salvage each other,
instead, we witness. make portraits
from mush & shoelaces & foam. spin like 
urgent planets. we laugh & get as dizzy 
as we can. we are not worthy 
& it is loud & glorious. 

new car

i don't want a new car. i want
a cave that no one knows about 
but me. i want the bats to take me
as one of their own. i want to grow
thick black fur just like them.
i want a flower with an eye in the middle.
for it to wink at me & tell me 
a really verdant secret. i want to not worry
about maps & about backseats. 
i want the world to shrink to the size
of a coffee cup. to be able to reach
for every kind of bird i need. i don't want
to stand at a gas station & fit my prayers
beneath my tongue. i don't want
to look for gods in neon signs. 
i want a sun that tastes sour & sweet. i want
a someone to lay with. for the walls
to stop shivering. i tell them, "you are
not allowed to be cold too." i don't want
a car, i want a body with legs so tall
that i can walk across the whole earth 
in only a few strides. looking down
at everyone else & their traffic jams
& their shot-gun seat poetry. 
i want a deer who comes back each night
& eat apple slices from my hand. i want
a train that runs on promises. a window
without a ghost in it & another with. 
the hungry lists birth each other.
my fingers, shaking in the caramel light
of a withered bulb. i wash my skin. 
find mice in the utensil drawer again.
i ask them, "can you tell me how you find me
wherever i live?" they do not answer
& i don't blame them. i don't want a car
not even when your headlights 
wash the house & i know you've come home.
i want us to start returning like worms.
up from the dirt. braided. 

good boy

you eat my face off & i ask,
"how would you like the stars?"
we buy a ghost online hoping
it'll fix us. all it does is weep.
you blame me. you say,
"if i bought a ghost i would make sure
it was a good one." i want him
to be right. i find him in the upstairs.
he is opening & closing the door.
i tell him, "all we need is a little
haunting. something to make us
need each other." he doesn't want to
& i cannot blame him. instead,
we make cookies & i tell him about
how i do not know how to love
without destroying myself.
he does not have advice but it is
such a relief that someone knows
besides me. most of the time i feel
like i have whole planets inside me
that no one else sees. i guess that is
just consciousness. when i try
to tell you the truth all that comes out
are toads. they are beautiful but 
they are not what i mean to say.
i put the ghost to bed & return to you.
you say, "did you return him?"
i lie & say, "i did." you say, "good boy."
i eat my stars from a bowl & 
they taste like knots. i am trying
to regrow my hair. if i do i am thinking
maybe i could sell it & buy another ghost.
one that you would like. one that
would make us happy. me holding
you & asking, "did you see that?"

sandpaper 

my long-term plan is to get smoother.
to buy as much sandpaper as my credit card
will let me & set to work. i will likely start
with my elbows & move on there
to my knees. i am convinced 
i could work out my edges until i might
blend into the leaves. learn how to feast
on the sun like i've always wanted. 
sand away my mouth. watch it scatter
as dust. all those words broken into
wonderfully unmanageable parts. 
we lie in bed & i worry you'll notice
the work i've been doing. i scoot away.
don't let you touch me. become a top sheet
kind of boy. when i call friends
i have stopped being honest. how can you say,
"i don't know how i'm getting through
this week." instead you say the grape-flavor words
like, "i am rough but okay" & "i am made of soft wood."
the chickens are trying to kill the smallest one again.
they peck her & i wave my arms at them.
i tell her, "you can come with me." we'll both
whittle down until we become part of the sky.
i leave you a love letter urging you to join us. 
get smooth & leave the knuckles behind. 
blue bleeding into orange. no feathers
or flesh to grow scabs. the smoothest place.
a guest room without bedding. the window 
playing a video on loop across the veil. 
it's of just before we had bones. 
when we could fill our stomachs 
with the flying kind of birds & still sleep. 

to catch a whale 

i used to drop the fishing line
out the window of my bedroom
hoping to catch a whale.
my father taught me. showed how
to pluck out a tooth & tie it to
the thin line. he never caught one.
instead, he waited. thunderstorms
came & left. moss grew across his back.
i sometimes would find mushrooms.
my favorite were the tinniest ones
that bloomed around his neck.
waiting is my inheritance. a family story
says i am the descendent of 
the patron saint of "someday."
once my father felt a tug on the line.
i was small. the house have grown
another floor each day. clouds would
sometimes walk through the hall.
the lock on my door fell out &
all the house ghouls came to put
their eye in the hole where the knob
had been. i sat with him. he stood.
he asked me, "did you see that? it was
right there!" i had not seen it.
even now i am not totally sure he actually felt
a whale. i hope he did. i lied, the way
all daughters do to their fathers.
i said, "i did. i saw it." we held our breaths
as he felt the line again. nothing. i put
my finger there too. nothing but
a little thread. i did the same without him.
i kept having vision of calling him
in the middle of the night to say,
"i got one. i finally got one." 
i still don't know 
what we're supposed to do with them. 
maybe it would have become a house 
or maybe it would save us
or maybe it would just lay, all muscle & bone,
rotting in the front yard. 
become a feast for the crows. 

rest stop 

i buy a satellite from a vending machine.
all the ghosts are circling like sharks.
every time i pull over at a rest stop
i think about staying there forever. living
in that lush liminal. standing on the roof
of the wingless car waving as people
come & go. some, assumed into the clouds.
others, turning into dust. i drink a gritty coffee
& eat a swarm of locusts. my favorite rest stops
are the restless ones. the ones with blinking
lights & cars that won't start. a man who has
been turning to call down the moon for months.
i don't want a shiny place or one with clean glass.
i crave the anywhere-ness of the right kind
of side of the highway. in the middle of pennsylvania
the world can feel the size of a tongue.
or, when it is raining & grey, even smaller.
a pinwheel or a frog. if i stayed i think 
i would start a shrine. it would just be my
open trunk, or, once the car has run away too,
just my mouth. i would point & say,
"leave a note about the distance between
where you think you're going & where
you know you'll actually end up." the red lights
eat each other like tadpoles. i call you but
you don't pick up. the road becomes a ribbon.
i use it to wrap myself up tight as i can. 
remember the satellite. close my eyes 
& hear her blinking, taking pictures of us
from as far away as she can get. all blue 
& storm cloaked & bright.