These bodies weren’t made for poems

 

These bodies weren’t made for

poems—i say as you open

me—a page turn—

fold—crease this body

let’s come back to this—

let’s keep

book marks—

each other’s skeletons

written napkins—

back pockets full of

left turns—

these bodies weren’t

made for poems—

these bodies were made

for your mouth on my neck—

i met you & you found

page numbers on my

hips—

pearls under my tongue—

strum my throat—

& i will reverberate—

you reverberate in me—

& the walls know your name—

they tease me—they tell

me your body was a shadow

i cannot keep—

your body was a handful of

words

only written

against a silent sliver of

moon—there was no

part of us to be contained—

ceiling grew feathers—

coughed clouds—

skin to skin to skin

to binding of a book

i call my spine—

forgive me now for

keeping your shadow—

for pulling out handfuls

stars like blue berries—

for eating the whole moon

a sour grapefruit—

this is all because my skin

has a haphazard halo—

a glow—

your finger prints &

i’m adrift

in them like

labyrinths— these bodies

these bodies

oh your body

was not made to fit

in a poem—

 

 

 

empty phone calls from God &
fly-away page #s

what do you
think when you answer
an empty phone?
a resounding &
unsettling silence 
echoing in the receiver--
do you blame yourself?
do you blame yourself 
for vacancy
& for the books
you open who lose 
their page #s--
each flying
away--
flip each sheet
of paper--
#s swarming
like gnats--
words buzzing 
louder & louder
shut the book
& place it back
on the shelf--
oh & the #s
will haunt you
& your fresh fruit
on the top of
the fridge--
the brown spotted banana 
& the crater-faced
apple 
the phone will ring
& you will 
sprint up from where
you were sitting 
& you will answer 
into a void--
the resonance of
your own silence--
you will ask--
hello
hello hello
is anyone there?
is it god calling
us & leaving
us to listen to 
our own bareness--
he sits there at his great 
big wooden desk--
musty phone book 
without page #s
he turns & turns--
unable to sleep as
he squeezes the sun
in his hand like a stress
ball-- crushing orbit--
clutching
fire-- so soft
in his palms--
he finds my #
purely on a whim 
& dials--
my phone vibrates on
my desk--
it's 11:27 a.m.
& i'm sitting
there trying
to think of
something to write about
other than a boundless
love for the moon--
my books have lost 
their pages #s
& whenever i catch one
wondering across my wall
i grab it & 
seal it in an empty
mason jar in the hopes
of teaching them how
to wear themselves
in a book again 
--on the phone
i ask again
hello
hello hello?
is anyone there?
but i already know
that on the other
line sits
the voice of god-- 
abandoned 
& uninhabited 
i let him 
hang up 
how will you come
back to me without
a page #?

bridge jumper

beam
after beam--
i build a bridge
between today
& tomorrow-- 
ankles 
in river water--
i drop from 
windowsill--
a potted 
bonsai tree-- roots
making fists--
arms wistful
for height--
when i turn a page
i turn with my 
whole body-- turn
my head into a windmill
& rush wild & 
jumping & falling--
because there's no
such thing as jumping
without falling--
i'll confess to 
you i have been waiting
in this airport
each night
& pretending 
i'm here to say 
goodbye to someone
who i've always loved
but never properly 
kissed-- she-
he
they 
get on the plane--
they don't turn
to glance back at me--
i'm waiting
to be remembered by 
them-- 
in the mean time i look
up at the tall 
airport ceiling-- 
i imagine
that the woman's voice
on the intercom
is the course voice of
god telling us to get
ready to board 
at gate 19--
she is a funny god
of radio tongue &
goodbyes broken
on kitchen floors--
she blows planes
into the air 
like dandelion 
fluff-- haphazard 
& untamable--
she grows our wings 
at the feet
of bonsai trees--
if i stay here 
in this airport
no one will ever guess
that i don't know where
i'm going--
i can lilt between gates--
adrift-- falling--
jumping 
again & again
from this bridge i build--
this bridge of
sand & knee-bones--
of sleep-less bodies
& moon-empty sky
fall--no--
plummet into 
sunrise with me
you'll watch me
in this airport
& see a
boy-girl?
pausing on a bench--
anticipating 
a pair of wings--
a flight 
not to get on but
to watch taking off--
i want someone to
take off with me--
to jump & not land--
when i was six i used
to worry that if i fell
off at the top of
the swing
that i would just keep
going & going--
the edge of
each day is a night
paved with stars--
a runway--
the voice of god
is full of gravel--
catch me
in a palm full
of stones--
ankles in river water--

 

this kind of flying

this kind of flying
is performed 
by the clip-winged 
love bird--
this kind of flying
is caught by
the butterfly
nets of angels--fishing
for our souls
in the clouds--

when i die i want
to leave my body in 
a library--
on a shelf full
of books no one
has checked out for years--
save me there 
in the flyleaf pages--
yellowing
from the faint
hush of sun in the window--

when i couldn't sleep
my father filled a beer
bottle
with stars just for me--
he dismantled constellations--
he taught the moon
to swarm me
like a cloud of gnats--

this type of flying is
achieved slowly 
& then all at once--

this kind of flying 
lifts your bed frame
from the earth--
soars above
a city you've never
been to--
Paris-- San Francisco--
Seattle--
Atlanta--
you mistake the lights for
stars--
mistake the people
for
angels searching for
their wings by
street light--

night rains &
you mistake the rain
for the melting
of the solar system
above you--

above you around you--
this kind of flying 
sold it's wings for
a jar of quarters
to bury 
in the backyard
beneath
the evergreen tree--

this kind of flying
is a kind of falling
a kind of falling faster
& faster 
until 
you hit the water--
land in atlanic ocean 
next to the fragments of
space shuttles before
you 

this kind of flying
tells you to step
out of you body--
leave it
home to sleep

feel the breathe
of wind in the
turn of white pages--
number your hips 
so they know where
to find you--

write the 
index on the back--
they'll find
your dog ear-ed 
pages-- they
know what words you
hold closest to you

they know what words
you keep in 
your father's beer bottles--

teach a word to 
beam & hear it become
a star-- 

smack it's head on 
your lamp like a moth--

turn off the sun--
the moon-- open
your window--
let it fly off
on it's own 
to rhyme in someone
else's body 

this kind of flying
is a kind of falling--
your bed frame losing
its will 
somewhere above
the open ocean--

message in a bottle

laying here
i think about how
each night 
is a small
death--
i roll the memory &
place it carefully
in one of my father's
green beer bottles--
they wander aimlessly 
on the porch--
clatter on the pavement
when there's a gust of
wind
& this night 
shoreline
comes crashing at
the back
screen door again--
hinge whining open--
i drop what was left of
me lingering 
in this night--
send him off 
in the glass hull of 
his father's bottle--
i float face up--
drink salt water dreams
& god sitting 
at his desk writes draft
after draft of
my life-- sending
them down as paper
airplanes to sink 
in the water--
i say to myself
that in the morning
i will wake up
in someone else's hands--
unfurling me--
reading me like a hymnal--
singing what's left of
me from the night before--
i'll tell you i had
a marvelous dream--
as vast as the water
lapping at the back 
porch--
love me like you
would a hinge--
take my wrists
like door knobs--
i'll tell you 
i had a marvelous
dream only i remember 
none of it--
you were there--
reading me--
my body 
as always
a message pulled
from a green 
beer bottle--
i had gone 
somewhere without
going
& when the ocean
is dry &
our bottles
smashed on the sidewalk--
we will wake up
abruptly
to the sensation
of sinking
in each other
& god with
his quill pen will
laugh &
neglect to write
us an ending
each night
each night 
a small small
death

 

paper machete moon

clumsy as i am--
i dropped the moon
from the sky &
it shattered on
red tile kitchen floor--
we'll be wearing
shoes in here for awhile--
come with me--
let's walk along
shoreline made
of broken green 
bear bottles--
the shards click
as the tide pulls in
& out like a great
loom weaving
us full of water--
hold my hand i
want to balance 
on the rocks-- i want 
to stand on
my tip-toes-- i can almost
reach the top
shelf
where our mother
set the moon-- 
gold rimmed & glistening
a halo--
the only saint 
i ever believed  
in was her--
my mother with a picture
book of the saints
in her lap--
tell me a story about
the girl who put the moon
back together--
a martyr without a head--
my father sweeps the
kitchen floor--
pulls a sliver of
glass out of my bare foot--
we drop ourselves 
from great heights--
here-- me & you--
let's make a paper machete
moon so the night sky
isn't so lonely
& the water isn't so misguided
without the weaver--
dip strips of newspaper
in the sea water--
i'll blow up
a birthday balloon
from the top drawer in
the kitchen-- we'll
make it like a piñata--
layer after layer of 
newsprint strips
oh listen to me--
don't read the headlines--
POLICE ARREST 5
TRUMP CALLS ASSAULT ALLEGATIONS FAKE
PLAGUE OUTBREAK IN MADAGASCAR 
ISIS MILITANTS SURRENDER TO KURDS 
i told you not to read
the headlines--
we're safe here
you know? we're safe here
while we make
this paper machete moon--
paint white over
the breaking news--
we've broken enough
today--
hold my waist while
i sit the new moon
up there to dry
in the heat of the stars--
god's little christmas
lights--
he doesn't have
the energy to 
take them down 
off his porch
so they linger
year-round 
sighing as they
watch their reflections
black ocean
sewing itself
into the sand--

cloud cartography

i've always thought
of myself as a map maker--
charting shoreline--
giving islands
their silhouettes--
i see myself-- pen &
ink over a scroll
of paper-- sextant
measuring cliff contours--
the small of her back--
a grotto--
i'd conjure sea monsters
in the four corners of
my maps-- the kraken
with his tentacles
thrashing-- gripping
the hem of capes--
our bays are full 
of sirens-- yes
the life of a map
maker 
would be thrilling
but i think if i were
to pick  another profession
i would taken to mapping
the clouds-- 
they're uncharted--
un-tethered-- 
i would take my scroll
& lay on my back--
the map would of
course never be finished--
hour by hour as the clouds
moved i would erase 
their lines-- i would
give them new names--
today the peaks of Saint
Celphalophore carry their
own heads-- these
martyrs-- breaking
collasping
into new bodies--
the clouds don't hold
onto  each other--
the sky is full of krakens--
& the best part would
be that i would never 
need to be done--
no one would be
there when the sun went
down to check & see
if i had been productive
that day-- 
i would simply
hold up my blank slice
of parchment-- the tracks
of clouds erased & drawn
over & over--
another day another 
cumulonimbus to name--
another mountain born from
mist-- roaming over
the sky--
as dusk dropped around
me each night 
like a great knitted shawl
i would pray to 
the clouds whose skeletons
i came to know so well--
i'd laugh with
them & ask
-- will 
you ever ever ever
hold still for me?

flip phone

i don't know where
my first cell phone is--
somewhere she
stumbles--buried 
under half-finish
drawings & grade
school report cards
beneath
my bunk bed
at my parent's house--

she dangles her charger
chord-- a long 
rat tail etching 
tracks in sand--
the desert is cold
at night-- 
the moon is made from 
lantern flies who
disperse at the snap
of a twig--

there's only willow
trees-- 
each dropping
paper clips--
there she curls up
with herself &
pages through 
my words again--
all the same as i 
had left them--

i'll be five 
more minutes & 
lol & thnx &
goodbye & goodnight
& i love you &
i love you
so so so much--

she falls into
camera roll--
she watches me lilt
from picture to picture--

pushes a strand of
brown hair away from
the face of a fourteen
year old girl
in search of a body--
in search of a mirror
to crawl into--
there i am-- thin
as a paper clip--
held together 
by a phone chord--

she kisses each image--
she wants that girl
to come home to her--
to press her thumbs
on her key pad--
write letters
into night sky--
text constellations--

in the depths of
her body she keeps
these handfuls of 
photographs-- 
stacks them up-- 
shuffles images
again & again--

puts her ear to 
empty receiver as
if someone-- 
anyone
might be calling--
my voice mail 

hey this is sarah--
i guess i can't 
the phone so leave a
message after the beep
BEEEEP

& she wants to leave
a message but she
doesn't know what 
to say so she just
folds herself--
hold on tight to 
reverberations of my voice 
as they 
echo in her torso--

she yearns so
much to listen--

the art of making a river

all life originated  
from the green 
coiled garden
hose--
entwined around itself
on the porch--
a snake-- loops
gushing with
clear blood-- 
inside the hose 
held all of our skipped
stones off
the bottom
of the creek--
fish hooks &
bobbers--
my silver claddagh 
ring lost
down some drain--
emptied to
the ocean & back
to the garden hose--
billy & i
cranked the
grey knob 
to turn on the
water--
it squealed &
squealed-- 
like a newborn
song bird-- 
all pink-necked 
& screaming for
flight--
screaming for 
loam & clay--
we laid the hose
there & let water
spill down
the black asphalt 
driveway-- naturally
the trickle separated 
into little strands of
river-- the ganges
the nile-- the hudson--
seine & ephrates--
each one thrumming with
the anxious bodies
of fish-- each one 
full of skipped stones--
each one whose river bank
held our bare feet--
i remember being
scared to turn off 
the hose-- knowing
these rivers would stop--
i had been so proud of
their private rush for
my brother & i there--
we small skinned-knee gods--
hunched over
& watching man learn how
to fish--
learn how to walk on
water-- learn how
to send their dead down
the river-- decorated 
in flowers-- marigold &
rose-- the floating
lantern lights
are mistaken for
stars--
dad would come out &
warn billy & i about
the water bill--
the price we all pay for
being a god--
& the rivers would run dry--
the great drought--
fish flopping on
the pavement--
the world's rivers 
trickling into grass--
we small bare foot
gods 
were left to watch
the sun suck
them dry 

 

explorer

let's go & find
the 8th continent--
i said
standing on the jungle
gym-- 
recess was meant
for explorers like
us-- 

this was
after mrs. petrie 
pinned the great
map of the earth
to the chalk board
of our 4th grade classroom--
she pointed to the vast
hunks of land--
north america 
south america
africa
europe
asia
austrailia 
antartica 

i asked her where
the islands go--
what continent they 
belong on 
& she said 
whichever
one is closest &
i didn't believe her--
i imagined them roaming
all on their own--

we learned about 
pangea & how god
broke us like
bread-- 
this is my body 
& in memory of
him-- in memory of
that initial break
men took to the seas
in wooden ships--

those vessels
who whined & moaned
like the torso of 
the dead oak tree
in the playground--

amerigo vespucci sitting
in my textbook wearing
his floppy beret--
ferdinand magellan
scraggly black bread--
leif erikson who
mrs. petrie said
was here before columbus

they stared into me--
planted flags
in me-- 
another claim
for portugal-- for spain--
for the holy empires--

i asked mrs. petrie 
why no one
had discovered these
huge fragments of
bread before 
a handful of oddly
dressed men

she said that no one
had been looking--
that everyone had been
too busy to be explorers--

i say this as the closest
thing i can offer 
to an apology--

this my body 
he said-- as another 
european flag
stuck in a rib cage--

the water beneath
the deck is 
red-- still red--
their eyes floating
on the surface of
my 4th grade text book
watching--

waiting for
the fingers of 
children to page 
past them--

the names of native
peoples were not 
part of our history book

not mayans or
aztecas or incas or
cherokees or lakota
or sioux or quechan

i ask you if you want
to go come with me
to
discover 
the 8th continent

from mulch-- from
oak tree shade-- from
hopscotch squares--
it can be our pangea--
break this body with me

there is no starting
over--

there is no apology
for this

i'm docking a wooden ship
to a land with no soil--

they told me to 
be an explorer--
to dive beneath the ocean 
& resurrect stones
we dropped 
down deep in 
the throats 
of the waves

let's break
this is my body