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?
10/15
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--
10/14
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
10/13
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
10/12
giants i cracked the window backseat of the blue station wagon-- our car was always climbing another highway-- another rush of wind through my shoulder-length brown hair-- i used to watch the landscape unfurl like a pop-up book before me-- page turn page turn page turn-- a film reel spinning-- projected around me in this great IMAX theater a pinwheel-- shimmering in the vibrations of the world out a car window-- & on the mountain ridges i would see the towers where all the powerlines meet & i would think that they looked like giants-- immense beasts of steal-- their skeletal frames letting the air rush through them-- they danced-- jump ropes in hand-- great oaks & evergreens brushing their knees like tall tall grass i used to run in when i was too little to be scared of ticks-- i imagined them at night when there's no more need for power- lines that maybe these giants rushed off over the crest of the peaks-- hand in hand-- singing songs only giants know in a voice made of metal & bird throat-- there they would tell stories of all that they had seen that day-- a nest of chickadees-- a hiker's hat blow off & drop into the creek-- a bike-rider with a green back pack eating a banana on a tree stump-- a little girl gazing out the window of a blue station wagon-- they would light a bond fire-- pluck the stars from the sky like ripe raspberries-- scoop marshmallows from the moon & roast them golden brown over the fire-- their shadows in the light of the flames would take on a mind of their own-- skeletons frolicking across the shrugged shoulders of the ridge-- in the blush of morning the shadows would fade-- as all ghosts do-- back under the bellies of the stones in the creek-- the sun came with a thud-- a peach too heavy for the branch & begrudgingly the giants would slink back to their posts-- wires in hand-- watching a blue station wagon pass by
10/11
we keep our closets i save mine in a locket around my neck-- keep the keys beneath my tongue-- this is the place where my body echos like the whisper of all the earth's water in the corridor of a conch shell placed to the ear of an eleven year old girl who was also me-- i open the door to fall into the ocean-- splash & float on my back-- here is where i grab handfuls of laughter-- stuff my pockets with sun-- the four walls of this closet reverberate with refractions of mornings-- of my own voice-- the sky pulls a rainbow through her belt loops-- oh & then my closet grows lush when i was little & i sat in the bathtub with the shower head running i would pretend i was naked in the rain forest the ceiba trees & cathedral figs wrappings their roots around my thighs-- i feel each droplet gambol over my chest-- my legs-- drip from my branches-- the biggest apples grow on the lowest branches so i can reach-- i eat every single one of them & the door knob teases me & calls me EVE i've captured clouds to remember how to weep with every part of myself until i drop my small leaves like the willow on the hill with the gravel path behind my parent's house-- a dog barks in the distance-- i see a dress in goodwill & i know a girl who would have worn it-- she is brave & she keeps a locket around her neck-- i live in the closet doors of her body-- her mouth-- the hinges of her fingernails-- i am so in love with her-- with her eyes that hold rubber trees-- her feet dusted with sand-- she threads the rainbow through her belt loops-- i put the dress on a hanger-- float in the ocean behind this door it is mine it is mine it is mine
10/10
hubble last night in my body i wanted to feel smaller-- i felt the edges of my skin expanding-- my freckles drifting into the night sky-- i clung onto each & asked them to resist becoming stars last night in my body i borrowed the eyes of the hubble space telescope & i thought about all the awe she has known & how she feels about the body she captures images of-- NGC6753 the second known spiral galaxy whirling like a shiny pinwheel out the window of my father's jeep as we drove through the corn fields-- the center-- the corona they say it will tell them something about how galaxies form even though the light she captures is thousands & thousands of light years away i wonder what it's like for her to listen to these memories of light-- the pirouette of celestial bodies some dead some dying some remembering themselves-- when she watches a star burst does she sing happy birthday? does she want to hold the little burst of life hold to her chest? i think if i were the hubble space telescope i would want to avert my eyes-- i would want to leave the infant stars & galaxies to bask in the infinite heat of their births but instead she grabs picture after picture for the men on earth-- drops them like postcards-- she tells the men to be gentle with the images-- that these are bodies are so much like their own i wonder how many spiral galaxies i contain tongiht or what it would be like to be able to twirl like one oh NGC6753-- i will only ever know you though this stream of photographs-- your corona a blaze-- your dress burning with stars-- & the hubble space telescope up there tonight she will want to feel smaller-- she will think of all the nebulas-- the sun spots-- the gaseous fascade of jupiter-- & she will wish more than anything to feel her feet touch earth-- soil or rock beneath her to hold her-- her body out of orbits-- here in my room i am held by carpet-- i share her eyes a star is born four thousand light years ago
10/09
i saw saint mary in starbucks i saw saint mary in starbucks-- she was leaned over the counter-- perched on a wooden stool legs crossed beneath her blue robe-- she looked up out the big front windows it was a cloudy october afternoon full of computer screen glow-- at the table next to her a woman in a bright red dress was interviewing to do marketing for a start-up & on her other side was of course-- me scrolling on my phone & pretending not to notice the virgin mary sitting next to me-- she sipped her pumpkin spice latte-- stuck her finger in the whipped topping & licked off the fluffy cream & drizzled caramel syrup-- resting her head in her hand, she scrolled through her phone-- our saints have recently gone digital after some encouragement from the higher ups jesus said it would be good for them to get more in touch with the people again-- she now receives prayers by text message vibrate vibrate vibrate their words blurring across her screen she openned each prayer one by one by one & the phone just kept vibrating she set it down on the counter & it continued to vibrate vibrate vibrate i took out a pen from my backpack & scribbled on the back of a brown paper napkin "Hail Mary full of grace..." i slide it to her shyly-- she peered up at me without a word & smiled like the statue we have of her sitting in the Nativity-- picking up the note she grinned wider & mouthed "Thank you" she picked her phone off the counter & opened tinder to amuse herself between answering prayers over the rim of my coffee i eyed her swiping right on some girls from Bryn Mawr college-- hair long & wearing instagram filters-- i opened my own tinder to see if i could find her profile & there she was-- saint Mary-- the same image as on the prayer card in my wallet on the way home i wondered if she had remembered me or anything i had prayed for or if she just got to know human in brief snippets of their pleas-- their wants-- their desires-- i wondered if sometimes she would just like to hear a message-- a simple hello & a smiley-face emoji of some sort so that she knows that we don't just want her for the influence of her son-- i pulled over on the side of the road opened my own phone & texted my mom to tell her that i love her because i don't tell anyone that enough-- i sip the last of my black coffee & i pray to saint Mary & tell her that i'm sorry that her phone is full of so many prayers & that i'm sorry they never stop coming even when half the world sleeps-- my phone vibrated & an unknown number had sent me a little star emoji i sent her back "Hail Mary full of grace..."
10/08
open the neon lights in my veins sing "open"-- linger in me like a doorway-- like a round coffee shop table-- i want you to rest your glass of water on my forehead without a coaster-- leave a water ring halo-- i'll be your neon light saint-- cross your legs beneath me like your mother taught you when you first haphazardly wore a dress & felt a gust of wind ring your knees like church bells-- it's early in the night & we've yet to sink-- let's push this bed off the dock-- swim under the covers where we'll be safe grow barnacles on our thighs-- let's be quiet like sea urchins & no one will find us or wake us from this kind of sleep-- this kind of drowning in each other's bodies-- there is so much of us-- descend the the sand-bottom where i keep my sunken ships-- the salt water of my blood eating away at the wood-- my oceans have sharks & smug grinning eels-- my oceans have pillows floating above like clouds-- what do you think of my body? is it something you'd like to drop into-- throw the anchor off the side of the bed let's stay here-- tell the sun to be patient with us-- my body is the supermarket that stays open through the night-- i lay ajar for all the shopping cart wheel spirits at four a.m. who buy pumpkins to carve themselves into-- i have become my own night light-- neon glowing through all my veins-- tossing shadows across my white ceiling-- the water on the floor of my bed room is cold-- it's autumn now & the ocean crosses her legs-- she pulls on stockings & ties up her hair in a messy bun-- when you need me i'll be waiting across the street in the window of the little pizza shop i'll be neon-- i'll be open
10/07
i lost the sun down the drain this faucet-running morning i dropped the sun down the drain-- a beacon of light protruded from the sink & i reached my hands inside desperately to grab at it-- i felt warmth & the tips of my fingers brushed her fuzzy surface-- for those of you who didn't know the sun feels a lot like an over-ripe peach i thought to myself oh what oh what will everyone think of me when i tell them i lost the sun-- all the while the song-birds outside my window gossiped about the stupid-girl who thought she could hold a star without trembling-- i say but i'm a boy- & they laugh & laugh & i ask them if any of them has a voice to trade-- that i would be willing to barter with the sun once i dislodged it they whispered me down the alley-- up the street through everyone's feathers-- through the piles of leaves collecting in the gutters they swallowed their voices whole & told me no--no-- no bird songs here-- little girl keep your voice in your mouth where it belongs-- i closed the blinds which didn't do much seeing as the sun wasn't in the sky but at least the window muffled the chatter of birds i turned on the flashlight of my iPhone & flashed it in the face of the star in my sink i took a deep breath & got on all fours-- it's amazing the spaces you can fit in when you believe in the smallness of your body-- i crawled in & around me the drain expanded-- the walls-- the aqueducts-- great stone arches encircling me as i learned how to fall the sun caught me-- her arms open her body soft & blushing-- i told her but i'm a boy & she laughed & fed me handfuls of light & cooed i know i know i know
