dear joan of arc,

what's it like to become
the Seine river? 
i've been thinking about
you a lot lately--
mostly because of
how many poems people have
written about you--
i hope you don't mind but i
would like to write another--
this one isn't a metaphor--
this one isn't about a young
girl turned into a fire &
then a river this one
is a invitation--
if you would have time
i would like to meet you--
it could be anywhere but
i would prefer somewhere romantic
like a park bench or a fountain--
yes, a fountain would be nice
or the creek that runs near
my parents house--
we could take off our shoes 
& walk in the chilly autumn
water & i could tell you 
all about how when i was
fourteen i couldn't wear
armor but that we all bled 
milk & when the fire ate us
we turned into water--
found our way beneath the river
stones to sleep where our bodies
couldn't find us--
i would ask you if you
know how to skip a stone &
of course you wouldn't--
you were too busy listening
to angels--
i tell you to hold it like this--
no--no 
you need to find a flat one--
& we toss them to the other side
of the water--
yours takes three leaps even
though it's the first time
you've ever skipped a stone--
could you tell me what the
angels sound like or do you not
remember?
do you still talk to them?
alone at night when 
you are a river & the
night sky washes her
hair in your arms-- do you
still hear angels?
i believe you if you say you
did & i still love you if
you admit that you didn't--
i think we've all heard angels--
i want to ask you've ever
made a duck call out of
a piece of grass-- press
your thumbs together & 
put the blade in between them--
wet it just a little bit but
not too much--
yes you have it-- it's not hard--
i hope you don't have to
go back to being a river
so soon because i would
like to stay by the creek long
enough to watch the sunset
paint herself behind the 
trees-- we can stuff our
pockets with the colorful 
leaves & maybe keep some of
their colors for ourselves--
there's the oak 
& the red maple becoming fire--
igniting our pockets & our
hands & i watch the flames 
consume you & i say i'm sorry 
for asking you to leave
your body so that we could
walk on the bowed heads of
the stones-- i say i'm sorry for
making you a metaphor instead
of a girl like me-- a metaphor
like me-- another girl who
hid her body in a river 
so she could no longer burn--
they dumped your ashes in the
Seine river after burning you
three times & i can't help
but think of you dispersing--
floating farther & farther away 
from yourself-- your body a part
of all the water-- the bends--
the curled fingers around the ankles
of all the light in paris--
that is nothing compared to my
creek--
if you should have the time come 
& meet me here--
we can be lovers or friends or 
children-- it's whatever you
want to make of it--
when we're done we can be fire together--
let the doves lose from our
throat-- they'll see our smoke
signals across the ocean &
the angels will tell me i was
silly to try to love a girl
who is now only a river--
lay down with me like
the night who sleeps on
the surface of the water--
dear Joan dear Joan
meet me if you can--
we can leave our bodies in
the water--

when i grow up i want to a park pavilion 

when i grow up i want
to be a park pavilion--
the kind that holds the night
sky up like the great mast of
a sail boat made of egg cartons
& rubber bands--
i'll collect the initials 
of young lovers in
my body-- feels the etching
of their hearts beat
faster as they kiss beneath me.
when it rains sudden in
august the girls who swing
too high on the big kid swings
& the boys who hang upside
down on the monkey bars will 
crowd beneath me & make pews
out of the wooden
picnic benches & i'll feel
their bodies soft up against mine--
they won't talk to each other because
girls don't play with boys 
& the swings have already taken
her to the tops of the trees--
she has no where left to see.
my throat will be wide
enough for birthday parties
& there will always be a kid
who shows up uninvited--
he was just at the park with his baby-
sitter & decided to join in--
he'll blew out a candle &
eat the flame-- swallowed like
gnat wings--
underneath my body it's everyone's
birthday but no one is ever a year
older-- it's just an excuse
to light candles.
look at the squirrels as
they scurry across
my forehead-- trying to find
a halo--
my body will be the kind of religion
built out of the inconspicuous practice
of love--
in october when everyone's
bodies get accustomed to
living in desks again
i will press
my thumb to the sets of
initials still carved 
into my collar bones--
she'll return
to take back her kisses--
fill her pockets with them--
all different colors--
some the shade of bruises &
others as vibrant red as 
the apples that start blusing
in the sun--
she swallows them whole
so no one will
take them again-- she sits
in the park pavilion--
my body & she writes
a poem on her iPhone--
& dreams of sleeping there
in my skeleton-- laying
out on the cold cement floor of
my figure--
she traces circles on
the ground with a branch--
she writes her name invisible
but i grab onto it--
press it to my chest & fold it
into an air plane--
& when she leave me i will have 
the memory of her body--
oh when i grow up
i want to be a park pavilion--
my hair will grow
moss from the rain-- your
foot steps will leave me echoing
with ghosts &
the night will teach me
how to fold my pillars
inward & sleep with the
light in my ceiling on--
it's calling the moths
home like an audacious 
& brilliant mother--
oh how she burns their
wings.

children who perform invisibility spells

when i was in third grade
my belief in dragons rivaled my
belief in God--
i kept the dragonology 
hand guide like a bible
beneath my
pillow--
i studied their bodies--
their skeletons-- drew
their wing spans across
my notebook margins in spelling class
When Justin & Tyler would
take turns daring each other
to ask me out i would focus harder
on the contours of their bones--

in the middle of the 
red dragonology book
there was a small packet
of glitter with a spell
written in runes behind it--
one night on the floor of my
rain forest bed room i 
decoded it-- letter
by letter-- written
on the back of a sketch pad--
i pushed the little metal
button on my door knob to 
lock myself inside--
this was my study-- my chamber--
i pulled my green blanket around
myself as a cloak & i
held up the finished spell
to the lamp mounted 
on the leg of my bunk bed--
my lips moved with the words--
carefully so as to not speak
them out loud because we
all know that magic comes
when you let words free into
the air--
i turned off my fan & i 
took the packet of dragon dust
from its spot in the book--
i figured i only had one
shot to get it right--
following the instructions
for the HONG WEI invisibility 
spell i spoke the words
as i poured the dust over
myself--

i like to wonder what would have
happened if i would have disappeared--
felt myself go see-through--
i think i would have stood up
to shake it off at first--
as if i might be able
to shake myself back into a
body-- i would marvel at
the emptiness of myself--
hold my hands in front
of my face & see nothing--
i would not unlock the door yet--

upon performing the spell i had mentally
prepared myself for invisibility--
i said that it couldn't last
forever & if it did there
was a whole slew of new things
to try-- i could go to school
& walk everywhere
including the teacher's lunch room
where they keep the jar of graham crackers
& i could listen to hear 
what kinds of things people
like Rachel & Ashley talked about
when they thought no one was around--

i could know what Mrs. Bowman does when
she's not on recess duty &
i'd pick up a peanut butter & jelly
sandwich from the lunch line 
when no one was looking--
(i'd have to be stealthy or 
they'd see a floating sandwich)

alone i'd sit on a bench
by the creek next to the elementary
school-- i'd peel off the sandwich crusts
& throw them to the ducks &
maybe for a moment i might miss
having a body that other 
people could see--

not much though-- i remember thinking
how much easier life would
be if the spell worked-- that
there was so little you
could do to someone who had
no arms or legs or face or body--
i would be only touch & thoughts
& mouth & unlocked doorknobs--

i resolved that i would wait &
tell my father-- i would wait till he was
putting billy to bed &  then i'd
crawl up to the top bunk &
tell him to tell us a story about
when he was little &
they'd both scream & i'd say
it's just me 
& they'd search the room
for the body from where my voice came

i'd tell them i had performed
an invisibility spell & they would
understand-- i figured mom might be 
a bit upset considering she
didn't like my playing magic so much--

standing in my locked bed room
i looked down at my chubby stomach
pocking over the waistline
of my blue pants-- white
& soft like dough
i brushed the glitter off
myself & waited a moment longer
as if myself the dust needed a 
second or two to take effect--
i was tragically visible & i put the 
rest of the glitter 
in the waste basket--
got up & unlocked the door to
my room &
laid on the bottom of
my bunk bed--

i yearned 
for a body that could
be looked through--

if sleeping beauty didn't wake up 

we would say
what kind of girl's body
doesn't open by the mouth?
she had to have been
a whore or some kind
of night stepping wanderer--
what kind of girl doesn't
open like a hinge?
what kind of girl sleeps
through the want
of a prince?
& he would walk away
like all boys do when
they don't get
what they set out for--
across the kingdom 
the story of a prince
so wronged by a sleeping
woman would become
the story they told their girls
before they fell asleep--
to not be frigid & slumber
like the sleeping princess
who didn't know how
to wake up from her mouth--
who didn't know that on
her body was mapped a
boy's plot line
& awake in bed the girls
would fear sleep itself--
they would share stories
stories by the moon &
ask if each other had ever failed
to wake up in the morning--
but some girls 
some girls 
would want to find her--
they would take backpacks
as if they were going to 
school-- fill them with maps
& notebooks--
they would rip their stocking 
on briers & carry their slippers
in their hands & they would 
make their way over
the mountain ridge
at the far end of the kingdom--
following the persistent
blooming of hydrangeas like
the forest itself was blushing--
there in the depths of the trees 
she would lay-- wrapped
in vine & branch-- a body
embraced by ivy-- blooming
with flowers all around
her-- her face a tulip bulb &
the girls would stand in
horror & relief to know
that it was true--
that they didn't have to
wake up-- that there
was a body whose sleep
was so deep that not
even a boy could force her
to rise--
between themselves they
made up tales of what she had been
dreaming of all this time--
they said that she tamed dragons--
at she was a witch & a goddess
& a mother & a girl &
one of the them said that 
maybe she dreamed of a
princess who would come & kiss
her & she wouldn't have to
wake up to be in love with her--
they would leave offerings at
her feet-- handfuls of smooth
stones they had collected when
they crossed the brook &
dandelions which can always
serve as approximations for
a flower--
they would kiss her feet
among the brush &
they would leave without
another word-- back over the mountain
ridge back to homes &
cottages where they would sew back
& not sew the holes in their
stockings & sleep heavy &
so full of dreams 
that at times they felt
as if maybe just maybe
they would not wake up--

the facebook birthday phenomenon

hello,
it was nice to see
you 
& you're looking
well 
& by 'looking well'
i mean looking different
than when i knew you but 
still the same &
when i say it was nice
to see you i mean it
was nice to scroll
through your pictures on
facebook--

if i go back far enough
you'll be wearing the
same neon green head band
that you used to
in fifth grade or maybe 
the knee-high converse
that i was jealous of
even though the zipper
on the back would
get caught sometimes &
you'd be the last to 
get changed from gym
class--

we pretend the facebook
birthday phenomenon
is impersonal-- an electronic
notification that someone
that you have once
known or still know or
know only vaguely 
was born this day--
their name gift wrapped
on your dash board--
but 
this is when
you open them up  again--

you feel 
the way her voice sounded--
it reverberates off the
walls of your room--
you remember
the way she used to
bite her hair
& how Mrs. Hess in second
grade had told her it was
a nasty habit--

this time you go 
to his birthday party
even though you don't
know what sixth grade
boys want as presents
but what does anyone want
as a present anyway?

i want to be remembered--

when i get notifications
about your birthday i 
think of everything i have
ever wanted to say to you--

i start typing on your
timeline-- i write about how
you said something that
made me smile
during an afternoon
study hall & i wasn't supposed
to be listening to your conversation
but i'll never forget 
what you said about wishing
he would love
you like he did in the summer
& about how your mother
found an empty beer bottle
in your room

& i'm sorry that i never
said something to you when
i noticed you crying in the bathroom
we've all been crying in a bathroom 

& i want to come meet
you again-- we can get coffee
& catch up about the
conversations we never had & 

i'll tell you that i always wanted to
know how it was you
braided your hair like a fish tail--
go ahead you can ask why
i cut all of mine off--
 
there are so many people
that i know as a stack of
changing profile pictures--
in the latest one you're
wearing sunglasses & tilting your head 
you're submerged in an instagram filter--

let's turn black & white--
sun-stain our faces--
live between the months of our
bodies--
turn younger & older
& younger again--
do you ever look
through my photos?
i'd love it if you did--

instead of all that
i delete 
everything i wanted
to say to you--
i rest the cursor over
the empty text box &
i write 
happy birthday :)

& now you know
what the means

a room of our own

this year i was going
to live alone
as all poets eventually should--
my room's 
on the second floor of
a house with a white nose
& a window that looks
out wistfully at
the parking lot--
i thought 
this is how we
all become writers--
like Emily who wrote
herself into a ghost & if
she could then
then so would i-- alone
in a room with mobiles of
words dangling from the
ceiling--
but then of course
i had thought of her so
she was there to stay--
she didn't knock nor
did i hear her come in--
i came home to find
Emily wearing 
her long white dress & rocking
back in my desk chair--
she was 
jotting down brief sonnets
in my green marble notebook--
she doesn't say much
she likes to eat finger sandwiches
& she said that she would 
do the wash every other
load--
i figured i could manage her
but then of course 
there's not just one
of us--
the next day
i made a cup of coffee & let
it set to cool & when i returned
Sylvia was there stirring it
with one of my tiny
silver spoons
Was this yours?
she asked innocently 
& took a seat in the corner
of the room on my bean bag chair--
i let her make the coffee now
she does it better &
sometimes when it's too
late to be writing
she'll stay up 
with me & tell me stories
of the city in the winter & i'll
fall asleep--
she'll pick me up like a little
girl & puts me into my bed--
& i admit i don't
know where they all sleep--
perhaps they become shadows or
they crouch in the closet--
they haven't stopped coming &
yesterday in the afternoon
Millay brought us a bag of
apples from the fruit carts on 
MacDougal Street--
we shared them all sliced up
& before we were finished
there came more & more &
Gwendolyn said that the world 
is at the window so
we all got up to look
& grab handfuls of headlights--
stuff the light into our
pockets & laugh at
the rush of it all--
this continued for weeks & even
Shakespeare's sister put
hung a row of Christmas lights
about my bed--
i told them yes-- yes i
need to be alone but don't
leave just yet--
tell me another story--
another sonnet on the back of
a napkin--
sleep here tonight & 
in the morning i'll make
the coffee & we'll
write something astounding 
about this room--

i'll be a man with
no ribs--

i picked myself
apart rib by rib
to rid my body of 
every remnant of you--
your commas your-- 
dried stems--
your tongue behind
my teeth--
you ate through
my mouth as if
my lips were the 
tight flesh of a
red delicious apple--
don't tell me 
about temptation--
next time
you want to share fruit
i'll be the snake & 
you can be eve
instead of god
like you always get to be--
i'll bite your ankles &
you can learn to wear my wounds
like i wear yours-- 
in the hollow
of my chest where
you once planted
a rib like the stalk
of a sunflower--
the bent neck of a cherry
blossom tree--
i am an april snow--
i could fall only in petals &
oh don't
we all want to know
when//if we will be missed 
& for how long
i want to know if you will ever
find a space within yourself
as vacant as where i dislodged
you from--
i have found other uses
for your ribs--
i stick them in the soil
behind my house--
one becomes an apple tree--
another, an empty
picture frame i
use to remember the shape
of my body when 
you stored a piece of
yourself inside me--
& i'll watch the cardinals
use those other ribs as
the base of their
nest & when their
children shed their 
downy feathers they'll drop
like petals or snow
& they'll know nothing about
what lengths boys
will go to own you--
i am your adam with no 
ribs-- your 
snake-forgiving brother
picking up
apples from the back yard--
i'm on my knees 
in the garden-- making
use of your bones--
i fill my chest with 
with branches & when
it snows in september
i'll collect the
feathers & send them to
you--

my windshield wipers stopped working
& the world filled up with water

maybe i won't sleep at all
& i'll get up from bed--
moth wing heart in my throat
& go outside in the
rain wearing only
my boxers & loose
black t-shirt--

last night when it rained 
my windshield wipers 
stopped working & i plunged
into the ocean-- witnessed
the storm turn into
a sea & i rolled down my
window to touch scale--
feel the thrum of a 
passing 
school of tuna fish--

i hoped that if the car filled
up with water that
i would at least
get to witness 
the great body of a hump-back whale
somewhere nearby-- looming
in the distance--
it's shadow a storm cloud--
a skyscraper 
with dwindling lights 
left on in a few offices 
as other people rejected their
the concept of sleep--

i'll just stay up all night &
barefoot in the parking lot
behind
my house i'll spit out
bottle caps & plant 
them in the hopes of attracting
my father--
he knows how to get me to
fall asleep--
he used to leave little piles
of his beer bottle caps
next to the rocking
chair while he waited for
me to fall asleep--

what's the use in sleeping
if the windshield wipers
aren't working & there's nothing
to see but water?

i can sit here all night
& watch flowers sprout
from the meandering brown & green 
glass bottles 
in the parking lot--

maybe i won't sleep at all
& i'll wake up
in a different bed 
in a different body-- much
older & maybe my shoulders will
ache & i'll wonder what
put the soreness in 
this body's muscle--
where do you feel your worry?
what color glass are
your knees?

when i drive at night
without windshield wipers
i drive slow & occasionally 
i'll pass someone on the
side of the road & they'll
resemble an eel-- a hood
pulled over their head &
i'll want to open
the door to my car & tell
them to get in-- tell them
that we'll
go where they're going--

that i want to know
what kind of ocean
they keep in their
wet shoes & if they've recently considered 
no sleeping & just
letting each day fall into
the next like rain
filling up the earth until
the whales crash into the 
sky scrapers & the street
lamps become only approximations
for stars--

the world is filling up--
the water is to 
the second story windows & oh 
what if i just stayed up 
another hour 
to watch--?

car riders to the car port 

we all knew there were
different ways of going home--
some children walked with their
siblings out the double brown
doors at the front of the school
& the crossing guards
conducted the cars around
them in a sort of symphony--
fifth graders in safety patrol
badges letting their minds
escape down the sidewalks--
take root in the cracks
of the cement--
where did you grown your
afternoons?
the of course the bus riders
separated by
their numbered & colored
bus & sat with their book bags 
in their laps while
a lady in the cafeteria 
called "blue-seventy-two"
& "yellow-four-ninety-eight"
& i was a young girl
with my father's haircut &
two mismatched chuck taylors
& a lunch box full of clouds--
i want to pick myself up 
in the car line today--
drive back eleven or so
years ago-- 
i'll pull up in my green
volvo & the 3rd grade teacher
mrs. bowman will ask
who i am & i'll explain that
i'm myself only about a 
decade older
when she gets in
the front seat
i'll tell her
she doesn't need to
wear a seat belt--
that today we're
going throw her spelling homework
out the window & 
read e. e. cummings & 
discover everything you
can do to a sentence--
pluck the periods out
of our chapter books--
plump blueberries
plinking in a steel bowl between
us-- i'll show her how
you can wear question marks
for earrings & for dinner
we can eat gas station doughnuts
& i'll ask her to tell
me about the boys she has crushes
on & how sometimes she
writes
their initials on the inside-cover 
of her math notebook--
i tell her to peel off their
names & drop them on
the backs of a dead leaves
in the stream-- 
i say that it's okay
to day dream about them--
let the water
tension keep their bodies afloat--
& sometimes it's okay to drown
in sweaty-hand elementary 
school love--
she asks if i ever got
to love someone & i tell her
i have & that you don't finish
loving people-- that you never
finish loving people
& that's why the leaves grow back
each year so we have more
vessels to drop in the creak
when we turn crimson & marmalade--
she gets tired early because
i forgot how early elementary
school children go to bed
& at nine she lays out 
on the bench in the park &
i pick her up like an infant--
put her glasses on the dash
board & i drive her back
to her rain forest bed room with
the rain sound machine pounding
on her windows--
i lay her in bed-- 
gently brush her
hair out of her face &
leave her
with a bowl of blueberries--
washed & ready to be used in
poems-- 
i leave her a notebook 
& tell her to fill the first
two pages & forget to write
more-- this is the process of
teaching words come home
to you at night--
i tell her that tomorrow
her father will pick her up
at the car port in his blue
jeep & she won't remember me
& the fifth grade safety 
patrol officers will break
free
into a rush down the sidewalks 
& her shoe laces will tie themselves--
oh girl with my father's hair cut &
a blue denim jacket--
keep your pockets stuffed 
with sweaty-palm love-- 
baptize yourself clean  
in the creek & pick up
the pages of spelling home work
we threw out the window--
kidnap the words from
their pages--
peel
the blue lines 
your the notebook
paper-- 
braid them into 
a cloud--

i bought a telescope 

i bought a telescope to use 
as a staircase-- 
it's the only way to
get there you know? 
you unscrew the
eyepiece 
& walk right
inside-- a corridor--
a passageway--
the back door
we were all missing
& it resembles the long
hall in my grandmother's 
apartment-- the one
with the cats lingering
at the far end or
maybe the hallway at 
my parent's house--
always too dimly lit
so that it makes you 
want to run through it--
race into the telescope
with me-- arms 
open-- unafraid of burning
up in the atmosphere--
let your body become space dust
& climb this aisle 
of stairs on all fours
as if you were a child again
going up to the attic to
discover card board boxes--
when we get there the moon
will be empty & we'll 
leave foot prints &
sign our names in the dirt so
that the next person to
walk up there will know
they are not alone & 
i'll have brought butterfly nets
& i'll hand one to you &
show you how easy it
is to catch the stars 
who wonder away 
from their constellation--
you can pinch them by the wings &
we'll set them back where 
they belong in
the sky--
connect the dots & invent
our own star-bodies--
i took the big dipper &
made it into a dragon's head because
that's what its always looked like
to me anyway--
we can sleep out here in
the tent & zipped 
inside it'll feel like
july & lightning bugs will
find the telescope hallway 
& become 
wall sconces-- flickering 
quiet candles--
i'll tell you how 
tomorrow we can climb to jupiter
& you remind me that it's a gas 
planet & i tell you that
part of the fun of a telescope
is pretending that everything
is only a staircase away &
you agree that we can take
a walk on jupiter even if
it is made of mostly helium--
we can steal rings from
saturn to ordain ourselves
& make little halos like
the ones the saints wear in
stained glass windows--
what is the night sky by a stained 
glass window so close
to shattering from 
one of our tossed baseballs--
you remind me that we have to go back
& i let you crawl back inside
first-- through the corridor
light by fireflies
we emerge
in the sun room of our parent's house--
the big bay windows gaping open--
full of street lamp &
blushing with 
the passing headlines 
down the road outside 
the house--
we put back on the eye piece 
& rush-- race
down the hall-- the one 
that's always too dimly lit