a word for this

what is the word, again,
for watching people get smaller
as you pull away?
like when i drive off
into the corn fields 
from my parent's
tall-faced farm house
& watch my brothers turn
into stones in the driveway
& then into glossy-backed beetles 
only to become
ants & then flecks 
of mustard seed my mother
will grind for gifts around 
christmas--
we keep each other in
mason jars in the cabinet 
where the fireplace used to be--
i like to watch you all
get smaller because the smaller
you get the easier you
are to fit in my pocket-- 
you fall onto my everything
bagels--
you scatter like bread crumbs 
or sidewalk gravel--
we kind of people are contagious--
let's become a fog & walk with 
our bare feet  
up the hill to the driveway--
hide in the mailbox &
put the flag up & down 
to confuse the person who'll
come to collect the mail--
i don't want you to worry about
me but i have been feeling
like everyone is getting smaller
& i don't have enough pockets 
to keep you all--
i feel like i'm six again &
sitting on an airplane bound for
disney
world & looking out the window
& watch the people on the runway 
disappear beneath the wings
& the plane starts flapping like a 
butterfly--
it's a monarch &
we're migrating south for
the winter to hibernate in
mexico-- 
a flock of colors-- we turn
into a sunset--
a stinging ray of
sun caught in my sunglasses--
we blink & fall lightly
as the white flowers
next to the baseball fields
in the park--
i always mistake them for
snow-- let's 
be snow together-- 
pluck ourselves clean
from the backs of doves--
throw handfuls of sand out
the window--
all us small small people
evaporating in a rear view mirror--
oh what is the word again 
for watching people get smaller?
come with me this time
so i don't have to 
keep you in a my pockets or
a mason jar--
we'll wait for the air
to get heavy enough
to burst into butterflies--
hail the first one we can grab
onto & fly away from
here on a plane headed south
where it's warmer--
where all the balloons
go when you open your
hands & let the wind 
pull them away--
where all the fog get
eventually swept away to--
next time we rain--
i'll hail & remind you
how heavy small things
can be & how heavy 
it can be to carry so many
people in your pockets--
let's be mustard seeds 
if only for a day--
i'll lay in your rear view
mirror & turn into
a fog for you to drive
through--

if no one is home come in through 
the window

make yourself at home
here-- this body is your
body--
come on in through my
windows--
i'm an unlocked body
-- wipe your feet on my palms
& we'll collect the dirt from
your shoes & make
a sandbox-- 
the ants will play castanets  
with their jaws & 
we'll make wet sand with
with water foundation buckets--
you followed a map on
the back of a diner napkin--
a poem written in the language
of creased skin & 
open windows & 
my uncle's unfinished paintings--
i feel like an unfinished painting--
let's pour out the acrylics 
into the grass--
make a blue lawn & 
celebrate these bodies unfinished--
unfurl your napkins like
white flags & surrender  
to the front porch
with the light on--
glow
hotter than the moon with
me--
watch our mother set the 
heavy cast iron skillet 
smack on the moon & the eggs 
spit & pop in the heat--
bleed ketchup--
lick the plate & cross
your legs
on the steps outside--
the moths are banging their
heads & 
the window is open 
crawl inside--
over the stacks of 
notebooks &
across the book shelf--
find me there face up 
on the sofa looking through
the ceiling--
you can't control who 
finds you poems but you 
can leave you windows unlatched
at night--
your front door unlocked--
your hands covered in foot prints--
& you'll walk home
from school in autumn & you'll
see a leaf so red you'll have
to pick it up 
& on the back of it will
be another stanza--
my bruises fall like leaves--
my words like wrinkles in
the bark--
take a spatula to flip over
the eggs burning in the face
of the moon--
come on in
come on in 
the windows are open--
the porch like 
is banging its head again
a moth--

i grew wild without you
& finally fit the whole sun
in my mouth 

crack sidewalk-- 
grip stone--
bite down hard 
on the asphalt he told you
was your body-- 
my body is wild--
wildflower-- wild weed
wild moon coming
to sit on the lowest 
branches of the evergreen tree
in the backyard--
give me back those fistfuls 
of dandelion skulls--
oh children roar sun--
spit spore--
watch me grow wild now
& nip at your wrists
with rodent teeth &
dragonfly legs--
i listen to the hairs 
back grow
hesitantly across my arms--
my armpits bristle--
oh water reed & pussy willow
& tall grass on the side
of the highway
infested with ticks--
suck my body clean of 
this red blood-- i
want to be cobalt-- 
i want
to be blown away into
a thousand flecks of soft sun
like the heads of 
the dandelion you tried to
weed out of my skin--
i'm here to 
show you how wild i've grown--
how thick the moss
creeps across my thighs--
how the raspberry bushes
came to find my ankles
how mulberry trees tossed their
braids down my shoulders--
let's eat wild--
stain palms with berries--
chew roots-- tuck sugar
cubes under our tongues--
who did you think you were
to trim all this 
untamed body? 
i've learned that boys
come with pliers & rakes
& shears & razors to
uproot you hair by hair--
what do you think of 
me now with the spearmint
bush trans-versing my spine
like a tightrope?
there was always too much
body for you to keep up with--
there was always too much 
sun to keep my body bare 
of weeds--
i'm a chain-link fence-- 
an old brick wall--
i'm laying out this body 
in the august sun & waiting
to see what comes to grow--
trust me weeds there's no
one left who wants to
rip you out--
this body is wild now--
growling to 
shake off the pebbles--
snapping knees through
stone-- 

hitch-hike mornings 
& stars that fall like pears

what will we do with all
these stars?
i ask you because you
always seem to have a plan
for making
use out of falling objects.
let's make jam or jelly
or a great big pie.
they keep coming down
like the pears dropping
from the tree in my
aunt's backyard-- each star
plump & round-- engorged from 
all the rain this month.
there's been 
so much downpour
for tongue-dry july & the fruit's
insides taste like
gulps of creek water & dew.
i walk outside early early
in the morning--
before my father
wakes up & stands at the counter
alone to eat a bowl
of cheerios--
before my brother tumbles
down the stairs like 
a rubber bouncy ball--
before my dog's claws
clack across the kitchen floor--
before the day mouth
opens all full of sun--
i walk outside.
there is no light 
but the moon who walks 
daintily on a tight rope
pulled between the trunks of
the two tallest trees.
there, one our street,
i stick out my thumb
& raise it high even though
no cars are passing by yet.
i've always wanted to hitch-hike
somewhere that i could go to escape
myself-- i think that's why people
travel really-- to walk father
& father away from places
so haunted by the memories of
their bodies--
i want to be plucked off the side
of the road like a bruised 
pear-- make me into 
a pie or a jar of jam 
(if you can even make jam out
of pears)
& leave me on the back porch 
of my parent's house--
maybe the car will be driven
by a younger version of myself--
her hair long & bleached blonde
& pulled back with blue hairclips.
she still only drives in the 
right lane & is afraid of 
speeding--
i tell her to drive--
i say--
let's cut through 
this night//morning
& not look back--
we can escape 
these bodies together--
& as we pull away i 
leave my skin
on the side of the road--
standing with my thumb pointed
up
to the moon like
a compass--
the car turns the
road into a film reel & 
we unravel as we go--
the streets turning into
tunnel of corn--
growing taller & taller 
--the sky hailing down
pears-- smacking on the
windshield--
bruising & browning
in piles & piles & piles.
there's so many uneaten 
stars--
we pull over to collect the 
side in our pockets so that
wherever we end up
we can plant the sky the
same--
& in the end traveling
is all about where you 
make a home & how
you learn to stop running away
from your body--
we stop back where
we started & i get out
of the car to step back
into myself-- put my thumb
down & watch her driveaway
& when i get back inside
it's still before
my father gets up to eat his 
morning cheerios & 
the sun is still only
a pursed smirk
outside the windows-- 
i cut the brown parts
out of a star from the backyard--
i eat it piece by piece
sliced by the green pairing knife
& i let the juice trickle
down my forearms like
dew & creek water
& july rain--

sugar rain 

who taught you how
to drink from a honeysuckle? 
i remember my mother plucking 
one off the roaring bush
along the side of
the road to the park--
she peeled back the soft petals
& the nectar dripped like 
rain from the gutter--
i wondered if maybe i stayed there
all year round if i could
live off of honeysuckles--
taking sips like butterflies 
or hummingbirds--
wing beat throbbing--
bush sprawling out-- holding
onto the surrounding trees to sturdy 
herself--
where have you scattered
the fragments of yourself?
i plucked out my freckles
& pressed them in the soil
beneath the honeysuckle
bush one by one until 
my face was empty--
i kept the limestone
kiln fort beneath my tongue
like a pearl until it got
too heavy & i had to 
bury it out by the creek--
my lost teeth have grown
into spearmint leaf bushes 
behind my old bunk bed
& out on top of the cemetery 
hill in kutztown i 
took a hand shovel & covered
one of my knee caps in
dirt for you--
i threw my rib like a boomerang
only to get it stuck in the branches
of the tree in your backyard--
the one we climbed like 
squirrels & in the sand box 
at the park is where i snapped
off my knuckles as easy as legos--
& when i see honeysuckle bushes 
i remember how my mother taught me
to peel back the white petals 
& drink like a butterfly
& beneath the bush i see my freckles
sprouting into new bushes &
new mother's fingers gripping
the necks of plucked white flowers--
& new daughters learning how
to drink & wondering how
long they could survive 
drinking nectar
in droplets from the honeysuckle
bush-- bursting into sugar rain
from the side of the road--

dig 

before i'm ready to 
go to sleep i sit on my
knees  
& scoop
handful after handful of
dirt out of my mattress.
i get stones caught under my
nails & i scrape past
meal worms & beetles
rolling over each other like
pearls escaped from
my grandmother's necklaces
burrowed deep in the closet.
i peel back the blankets 
to have more room to dig
& i get soil all over
my bed room.
i'm hoping someone will vacuum
it up in the morning.
i decided to plant myself
& see what i grow into--
to finally teach the clouds
painted on my ceiling to rain 
all over my coiled body--
watch my freckles burst into
roots-- 
this is how your 
body comes apart into a million
little veins-- clutching to
earth & the pebbles & the gritty 
dirt like a banister.
one year after we went apple picking
i begged my father to grow us
apple trees in the backyard but he
said it was too much work to grow
apple trees around here--
he said that only crab apples 
grew easily.
there was a crab apple tree in
my aunt's driveway 
& when the fruit was falling
i liked to pop the plump orbs
under my red canvas shoes like
bubble wrap--
wrap me in another layer of
dirt & wait for the first 
fleck of sun--
so i learned to plant myself--
tuck my knees into my
chest & curl--
green knees & blossoms caught
all in my throat waiting to become
apples--
in the morning i wake up as
a full blown tree--
branches clawing at the ceiling--
arms shattering my
windows as if to puncture
a hole in the sky--
float apples on the clouds.
i made myself an apple tree
of all the colors & kinds of apples--
golden delicious dangle
from my ears--
gala from my elbows & of
course when the wind is strong
enough a handful of crab apples
shakes loose from my hair--

we laughed 

& took turns plucking the
moon out of the sky
like a marble--
you said it looked 
like a coin & i told
you it looked like a blueberry
& that i was thinking
about eating it--
& that i wondered 
what it would taste like
from all those
years turning golden
brown in the sun-- 
we keep driving
& i put the moon back where it
belongs--

i often wonder if
years later i'll still remember
these small moments
playing god with you &
laughing about 

the big things being so small 
(like planets & moons &
air planes buzzing like
gnats in the clouds)
& the small things being so big 
(like changing dorm rooms 
& folding blankets & 
throwing peach pits out the window
while pondering if any of them
will ever become a tree)

there's an eclipse coming
but i've only heard people
talk about it in passing--
it's like a really grand rumor
with special glasses to look at it with--
i don't really know what a solar
eclipse looks like other than
the obviousness of darkness 
but i hope i'm doing something
mundane when it happens
& everyone stops for
once to just watch everything
go black around them

i'm in the supermarket
a lot so i keep picturing this 
image of everyone getting quiet
& looking outside like
when it would snow out the 
three big windows of 
mrs. bowman's 3rd grade classroom--
everything would stop & whatever
we were learning would just become
full of snow--

i think i should look out my windows
more-- spend more time
picking up the moon like a bouncy ball
or an olive & laughing
with you while i hold it in
between my crooked teeth--
don't worry i'm careful not
to eat it--

i have no interest in waiting for 
the eclipse-- i want it come
when i'm not thinking about it--
i want to think if
only for a second that 
the sun is closing its eyelids
& asking us to sleep with it--

hold me in 
a gentle kiss of shadows 
like lips on my eyelids--

i want to pause & feel everything
stop-- walk outside
& catch snow on my tongue

moon in my teeth

i might not remember the
all the places i've dropped
peach pits or
all times we fit celestial bodies
so easily into the creases
of our palms

but i will have laughed with
you here tonight--
moon in my teeth--
eclipse coming down
like snow--

thimbles

when i used to walk home
from school i would watch 
the big black birds stir
the sky-- 
chasing each other--
their hula hoop bodies
carving halos into the
clouds-- 
mixing the 
wind with a clamor of 
rustled leaves & 
beads of dew draped from
each blade of grass--
i stood beneath their spirals
caught in cyclone--
hoping to get sucked
back into the sky--
this is how you get assumed
back into heaven
like mary in the paintings
at church--

sometimes 
while on the way home
i would lay down for a moment
in the grass between 
the school on the hill top
& the big flat field of backyards 
leading to my house--
i would count the birds circling--
seven-- five--
sometimes one or two
or none-- just me & my own
spiral--
back then i was learning how
to sew 
& i kept thimbles
in my back pack & sometimes
laying there i would take out
a handful of thimbles
& cover all of my fingers--
i wished i could cover my whole
body with them--
crouch down as i watched
the needle hum through
the clouds-- in & out--
roll yourself into a bobbin
& push down
on the pedal to seal
up the hem of the horizon--

i want you to sewn buttons
where my elbows used to be--
let's keep bringing up
the hem of this skirt--
up up above my knees
like high school girls wear them
& all the while the birds
spiraled & spiraled
pulling out stitches with
their beaks & laughing about 
how easily my hours
of work came undone on
the walk home from school with
the sun scrambling 
into the clouds--
whisked by bird wing & 
my feet walking through
the dewy grass-- 

i put the thimbles
back one by one 
into the pockets of my backpacks 
& counted the birds again--
one & two & seven &
all the threads fell
from the clouds like feathers
& i wore grass stain knees
& dreamed of owning a body
that could fit entirely
into a thimble--

running away from my voice

escape is a lifestyle--
kneeling by the side of
my bed one night 
i yanked it out & tucked my
voice beneath my pillow
like a baby tooth--
now i wake up each day
& rename myself--
poke a skinny dollar-store
candle into a 
fresh pancake at a diner
& announce to the waitress
(her hands still full of
coffee pots)
that it was my birthday--
she might smile or nod
(confused as to why a stranger
would be announcing such 
a thing)
you see i travel so much 
i never end up at the
same diner two days in a row
so no one knows
how many birthdays 
i've collected--
i say
today i feel like someone who
would be named
Alice or Martin or maybe
Xander or Tommy or
Sarah or Robin
i mix it up-- you know?
get up before the sun has a chance
to recognize me or
my voice has a chance to 
discern my body from the rest--
occasionally if i sleep in
i start to hear it
again-- 
a rustling of leaves--
it starts innocent like that--
like a wind chime or
the hush of breeze through the corn--
a voice catches momentum all at
once-- thrashing in the limbs
of oak trees above
where i sleep on another park 
bench-- 
i unbend the metal from around
me & get up to start walking again
before it leaps back down
my throat--
it's hard explain what made
me decide to give
up my own voice--
it might have something to 
do with hearing myself
on a recording & feeling 
like the words were being
spoken to me by someone else--
i just wanted to sound different
& so i try on different lives
to see if one has a voice
like mine should be--
each birthday candle blown
out makes me new--
an accountant headed for the city--
an old artist looking for
a lover-- a carpenter
headed home to see his family--
this way i get to try on
all their voices--
finished a plate of pancakes 
& leave poetry on
the paper napkins at the diner--
oh don't get me wrong
i know it's coming 
back--
a voice always does
& i'll doze off one
afternoon & wake up with 
my name back in my own
mouth & that sneaky voice
crawling underneath my tongue
& i'll drive back to my
house after all this time
& i'll go back to 
waiting a year for each 
birthday--

roses & other things that 
are/were/could be red 

roses are/were/could
be red--

red like
my nose outside
in november 
like
red velvet cupcakes
we ate on the curb
outside the eighth grade 
dance 
like
thinking that i might
love you like buttercream
frosting
like
knowing that i love
you like blaring EXIT signs
& sometimes like scabs

red like
holding your breath underwater
& sinking to the bottom of the
pool 
like
watching everyone
through a film of chlorine--
like
smeared pastel bodies
fallen into some 
impressionist painting
where everyone just looks like
clouds 
like 
falling back into you 
& kissing underwater
like 
how clumsy 
it is to kiss someone--
like 
not wanting to need air

red like
peppers
like
FOR SALE signs
smacked on front-lawn 
boats 
like
ring-pop engagements
underneath the green slide
at the playground 
like
apples & eating the
seeds until trees 
sprout from our mouths 

red like 
running away with you
& sleeping the back of your
parent's car
like 
midnight on the roof
like
a soup ladle full
of chess pieces & ice cream
like 
you watching me getting
sicker & being able to
do nothing about it
like 
measuring cups & 
lip stick on your cheek

red like
homecoming roses 
we dried out in your
garage 

red like 
i promise 
like
cherry slushie
like 
sun 

red like
fish hooks & bitten
tongues
like 
love songs i no longer
listen to
because they remind me
too much of a 
high school dance
like 
turning into the bodies
floating in impressionist
paintings
like 
becoming a blur of a human 
like

red like
wondering if i'm the
same person who 
fell in love 
in so many different ways
like 
jumping into a pool
like
dipping my
toes
in the creek 

red like
best friends & 
tree trunks
like
loving you forever &
ever
like 
burying necklaces 
in black trash bags 
like forgetting
to call you again 
for the third time 
this year
like
all you have become 
without me 
like
all you are because
we knew each other 

it was all red--
all of us--
like
the sunset melted
on the back porch-- 
like
throat lozenges when
we both shared colds
like
roses roses roses