september body 

i raised my hands up 
to dip my fingers in
the ink well of the moon &
pressed sunflower seeds
into my arm pits--
i grew late like the
purple chrysanthemums
behind my knees--
this is where i run away 
to-- 
where my dry-leaf bones 
crinkle-cracked
& we woke up the ghosts 
of our mother's maple trees--
dangled rope swings from 
tongue--
i opened the seed packets
onto my thighs--
my calves-- this garden 
this body that grew 
in september--
i am the kind of vines that
come through the window
& the hair on my legs
is a corn field to
get lost in with the foxes--
a thicket by the creek.
i harbor snakes &
pocket-watch legged crickets
in with garden--
we keep time-- count
each second on
the throats of the toads--
they pretend to be brown leaves--
oh take a walk in my september
body with me--
we can sit on a bench 
in the park & pretend
to know how to talk to 
god & move our lips
to the words we meant 
to keep safe in our heads-- 
we're 
too tired to think without
lips-- lick the moon
off your fingers & 
i'll show you the rows
of seeds waiting to 
become a garden beneath
my skin--
i'll have pumpkins &
tomatoes & carrots to 
pull out by their leafy tops--
my body was made for planting
& holding roots &
growing tall as our mother's 
maple tree with her
head splashing white
in the moon--
these plants bloom at dusk--
this body asks for 
cold nights to remember
the shape of its bones--
right now this body wants
to lay across the rives
to stop them from flowing--
this body wants to quiet the
crickets & teach the
trees to hold onto their
leaves for another night--
this body wants to be still--
swallow the wind from
all directions as one
big breath &
when i let go this body wants
pumpkin vines to 
take over my legs--
grapes to weave themselves 
up to my shoulders--
i'll keep the smallest parts of
myself behind my knees &
underneath my arms where
the sunflowers bloomed--
between my legs i made a pinch-pot
out of the that clay
that leaves your fingers 
all dry & chalky &
i don't want to worry 
about becoming
a pot ready for
the kiln fire in the morning--
i want to watch the rivers
stand still-- holding
each other like paper dolls--
holding in all the air
until the wings of the 
song birds in the morning 
start it all up again--
when i grow
take whatever pieces of me 
you need--
make pumpkin pie 
& stew
& zucchini bread--
come
find me again where
i'm still laying-- 
fingers
dipped in the moon 
& tell
me there are only
so many hours you can keep
the rivers from 
spilling even if your
body is always as rare
as september--

tundra

yesterday i walked into the
frozen food aisle--
opened the freezer door
& checked to make sure
no one was watching me--
there was only
a woman with
frizzy brown hair
checking
the nutrition label 
on a tub of turkey hill brand
rocky road ice cream 
& an old man in a navy
baseball cap stacking
his basket with little 
"Hungry Man" dinners--
each of them titled  
The Thanksgiving Feast
& it makes me imagine 
him celebrating the holiday
alone each night at the end
of a table-- one candle 
& a center piece of autumn 
leaves & indian corn
in april or july--
neither of them were paying
attention so i moved the pints
of ice cream aside &
climbed in-- 
tunneled my way through
the shelves & back to
where they keep the tundra--
i wanted to feel 
absolute cold-- not 
like anything you can 
find
from an open window 
in pennsylvania--
i reach out a hand & shut
the freezer door-- blow
hot breath on the glass
& invent my own hieroglyphs--
i leave a message 
that i'm not coming back
until i feel warm again--
the tundra isn't white--
it's been sucked clean of
colors so that everything
glow like a color only 
found in the tongue of a star--
a penguin slides up on its
belly & asks me what i'm doing
there
& i explain to him
that sometimes i just get
like this 
that there's no where else
to go when i feel
like this 
& he eats orange creamsicles 
& asks why i don't write
happy poems--
before i can tell him
that i do-- i do write
happy poems sometimes 
he skates away on
a gust of ice cubes--
i lay on my back & become
a snow angle-- elbows
freezer burn into wings--
i spit feathers from my mouth
& write poems on the inside of
the freezer doors
as dusk comes &
the night shift takes
over at the supermarket--
wearing the knees of their
jeans thin as they re-stock
the shelves-- new rows 
of light vanilla bean ice cream
& chicken nugget tv dinners &
white cheddar spinach pirogues
& chocolate chip waffles &
they box me in--
wipe off my poems with 
the back of their long red sleeves 
& i say what a shame it
was that i didn't bring 
any paper to write on so 
i take a spoon from my pocket
& eat spoonfuls of 
a small pint of 
pistachio ice cream because
i've always been intrigued by
the notion of the flavor
& i had never tried it--
it's not much to get excited
over but i finish the pint
& i feel colder than i had before--
on each window i write 
help-- help-- help
& then wipe it away because
i don't actually know what i
want help with--
i want someone to open
all the windows & let everything
melt-- i want to drip
like march-- peel off
dead leaves from me knees 
& no i don't want to write 
you a happy poem--
i want to breath hot
on the page until the words
congregate-- lock arms--
hide in nutrition labels 
& make thanksgiving in
july--
yes i pushed aside
the row of ice cream gallons--
crawled forward & out of the 
tundra--
orange dreamsicle in my
teeth-- brushed feathers 
from my shoulders &
stood up to see
the woman with the frizzy brown
hair still looking
at the gallon of rock road
& the old man in the navy hat
pushing his
cart of tv dinners--
& the freezer doors
still wear my poems--

a poem about people who kill house plants

this is a poem about
people who kill house plants--
who set their orchids in
the windowsill & water them
till they wilt
& drop all their bright
lips to the floor
of our bedrooms-- we
use lipstick & paint
their scars on 
our own mouths-- open
the window to let their ghosts
frolic out in the backyard
where my mother's potted
herbs sing old hymns to 
each other--
the basil whose body dried
& broken-- shedding
wings like bassinets
the thyme who came apart 
like the second hand
escaped from a clock face--
i had a tiny woven tree
who dunked her legs 
in a bed of stones & drank 
water from her knees--
her death was slow & 
she would eat nightlight 
with me & i would tell her
stories about how someday she
would grow big
& i would plant her in the
backyard of my house when
i was all grown up--
she died that winter &
i didn't tell my mother or
my father that i cried & 
dumped out her brittle 
bones behind the garage 
where we had goldfish
funerals--
my grandmother used to 
keep african violets
next to sink--
i used to think of them
as thumb prints or bruises
or wrong-color kisses--
their necks thin & 
faces tilted
to catch mouthfuls of
sun in through
the glass sliding doors
to the porch--
they haunt each sink i 
go to-- they giggles 
& leave lipstick marks
on the backs of my hands--
kiss mauve & gold &
black & eggplant purple--
some nights as i wash dishes they 
hand me a towel to dry 
my hands-- ask me where i
had been all day & tell
how lonely they all were--
not just the african violets
but all of them-- the herb
plants singing Ave Maria
& the little bonsai tree
who thought that he could 
grow tall enough to hold a swing--
the tomato plants without fruit
& the windowsill orchid without
a face--
& when i come home 
they're always happy to see me
even though i could never
take care of them right
when they were alive--
i rub my thumb over their
petals or the underside of
their leaves & 
water them with apologies--
i say
call me a rain cloud--
one with a grey-chin
& we sit together through
the sunset telling ghost stories
& chewing on the last
pieces of sun
that somehow
always tastes like peach--

red velvet cake sirens

here is a love
poem for my middle-school dance body--

take me for fat, 
     dissolving fingers, &
clumsy sticky bun skin--

let's all lean into the bathroom
mirrors--
     kiss three-day boyfriends
into forever from the hallway
behind the gym-- 

oh, no that
wasn't me-- 

     i was the one becoming 
a white brick in the wall 
of a gymnasium--

a lobby-walking 
     boy
whose body bit into 
red velvet cupcakes at
the bake sale table--

my best friend & i stood
at 
either           end 
& got
icing on our noses &
it was almost like kissing--

i wanted to kiss 
     my friends
& sometimes my own elbows &

sometimes 
my sweaty reflection in 
a middle school girls 
bathroom mirror
      where
i knew my own body 
as a red
     infection 

i stain lips-- i drench
your teeth maroon--
     & blushing rust
& scarlet blood

this body was sirens &
another thunderous song 
challenging 
our own heart beats

     oh who wasn't 
scared of their own body?

& i forgot deodorant 
so i used the runny 
pink soap in the 
bathroom to wash out my
armpits-- 
     let's make these
bodies clean again--

get redder with me--
hot oven coil cheek bones
   & they'll make
a game out of asking you 
to dance & 

you know your own body 
as a paper wrapper 
holding in the blood--

this body was used pads
rolled up like 
     scrolls

write your crushes
name on the wall of the
bathroom stalls you 
don't belong in

     yes 
it's time to be a brick--
lay heavy & cold
outside-- feel the music 
like fingers drummed 
on the sides of
     you head

splash water in your
face--

walk into a girls bathroom
mirror

     stain 
teeth siren & 
     tell them this is
no your body 
this is a hotel room

without a telephone 

& i eat a red velvet
cupcake &

my friend asks if
i'm going back inside 
     & i say 
not yet
& he waits there too 
     & the walls
turn our heart
beats into a song
we don't know the words to--

this kind of bird

This kind of bird flies backwards
& this kind of love breaks
on a window pane
-Diane di Prima 

this kind of bird
doesn't believe in mason jars--
this kind of
bird leaves their love out on 
the kitchen counter 
like tomatoes or 
bananas that brown 
in the windowsill heat--
let's make banana bread together
& slice it while
it's still warm--
this kind of bird
doesn't save 'i love you's
like marmalade--
orange smile with me--
keep a lid on my tongue &
i'll spit out a mouth full of 
robin feathers--
this kind of bird sleeps
in hydrangea bushes--
blushes permanently like 
a white peach--
what kind of toast do 
you want when we wake up
in the morning?
this kind of bird 
builds wings from dead leaves
& honey--
practices falling instead of
flying-- drops her//himself 
like a rubber ball becoming
the moon-- dive into the
creek--
this kind of bird 
hides beneath rocks &
learns to speak crayfish--
i love you like crumpled
socks by the door-- like 
warped umbrella wires--
like a mouth full of 
street light from the window--
this kind of bird breaks
promises like kitkats--
shares apologies 
to every clover
in the back yard--
have you ever seen a bird lay
on their back?
stare up into the sun 
with me-- we'll 
make our knees into match sticks--
this type of bird
flies backwards but
only so he can catch
the cherry pit you're going
to drop & planet it
so that it will grow
into a peach tree one day--
this kind of bird 
fell heavy as a crock pot--
broke on the kitchen floor
& loved himself enough
to pick up these
hunks of ceramic that
at one point made up 
my hips--
this kind of bird 
has a butter knife for
a tongue--
this kind of bird 
pushed herself from 
the nest--
this kind of bird 
speaks only 
in love poems typed 
on noisy type-writers
clacking from each of her teeth--
this kind of bird
this kind of bird 
this kind of bird flies 
out of the mason jar--
flies forward-- flies
backward-- flies
into your mouth-- flies 
up stream with the salmon--
flies behind the red knots 
up the coast from mexico--
flies over the shrugged shoulder
of the appalachians--
flies to the bottom
of the Marianas trench--
flies to the center of
the earth to plant a feather
like a flag
flies back to the windowsill--
eats M & Ms from the bird feeder 
& lays on his back
to watch the moon drop--
gentle like a rubber
ball in the driveway--
i love you like
banana bread & not like
marmalade-- like bruised
tomatoes-- like clovers 
& kitkats--
this kind of bird falls
backwards & breaks
on the kitchen floor--
rebuilds his wings
on the porch by
the street lamps--

sleepwalk tightrope &
these furious butterflies 

i'm opening 
a nightlight
to empty myself of all
these furious butterflies
& legless beetles &
segmented worms with
eye lash knees--
i wait
balled up-- a pair 
of mismatched socks-- 
i learn 
to pray with my mouth
open-- 
swallow the moon
like a sleeping pill
& tie the tight rope
between my index finger
& my thumb--
i come from a long line
of tightrope walkers
& my first steps were taken
over niagara falls
while my parents held 
the rope at both ends
& falling was 
welcome & inevitable--
when my chest fills
up with raging insects
i think to 
myself
if only i could take
out my heart 
& rewind it-- pinch
its wings together & 
close my eyes long
enough to stop my ribs
from scurrying away
from the rest of me--
i walk right up
to the moon balanced  
on the taunt rope 
& i sit in the curve of
the crescent like
a hammock-- 
rock wooden moon--
spit out the last pieces
of centipede ankles & 
moth necks--
i'll walk back down 
from this tight rope
tied between my index
finger & thumb--
i walk everywhere on
a memory of 
my father's rusty 
guitar strings-- 
i wear a jupiter beetle tucked
beneath my tongue
like a pearl--
oh & all these furious
butterflies
that wing beat
beneath my chest 
fly out to 
give the leaves their
shadows &
i finally fall asleep--
slip from the cupped palm
of the crescent moon to
land like a rock
dropped
down into the great falls--
my body evaporated
in pounding water & 
i swarm
in raving 
furious mists--

how far can you spit a
cherry pit?

when i say i'm falling
for you i mean i
want to lean up against
you like an umbrella by
the door--
open me inside when 
it rains & the ceilings 
leak with thunder.
i'll catch
the pits from these peaches 
& plums & nectarines
before they hail on our heads--
their clamor 
drops like marbles 
on the kitchen floor
& i'll laugh when the
trees start to take
root-- snap tiles-- churn
carpet & all the water 
trickles down the back steps

when i say i'm
falling for you 
i mean 
i want to spit cherries pits 
with you from the back steps.
i mean 
take a handful of 
these little stone fruits
with me & i'll tell you about
how my skin tastes--
i bleed bruises
from in between my own teeth &
i learned to keep cherries
in my pockets in case 
i ever want to 
promise something--

we take turns aiming at
the tops of the trees
but we have to be careful
not to knock down a star
from the mantle--

plant your stones
with your thumb 
nudged into the dirt 
out behind
the house & if a star
should break on
the kitchen floor
pick up all the pieces 
even the bruised ones--

i want to promise
you these pits
are going to become trees
& that we'll come to know
each other when they bloom
in april--
catch flowers on
our tongues & watch them
melt 

& in july when the cherries
are fat i want to 
tell you we'll pick 
them & fix cherries in the 
sky like tea lights--

spend the night
spitting rocks & witnessing
some take root
even in the black dirt 
around the moon--

how far can you spit a
cherry pit? 
i want mine to land in
one of those galaxies
that looks like
a bruise or a spilled 
bowl of blueberries
that got stepped on--

& i want to promise you
that our thumbs & our
mouths are capable
of planting trees--
that we are the ones
who built their limbs out
of cherry pit vows
spit into the dirt
of moons--

when i say i'm falling
for you i mean my pockets 
are full of stones--
my mouth is red from
wanting to kiss you--
all flowers have melted 
on my tongue 
& i want to be your
umbrella by the door--
your fist around a star--
your cherry pit 
snapping open into 
the weak green neck of a tree

erosion 

i want to erode 
mountains with you--
i don't remember a lot from
9th grade physical science
but i do remember that
the rocky mountains are
supposedly getting taller each
year while the appalachians 
are getting smaller
as a part of the process of
erosion-- 
the rain pours over
the rocks-- our faces--
smoothing out our
jutting edges-- our noses
become smooth boulders to
knock into each other 
tight as knee bones in
the joints of this mouth--
open wide & show me
your evergreen
teeth-- snap rocks with
root & tongue-- 
oh & then came the ice  
as early as October here--
creeping inside the 
freckles of the limestone &
expanding
to the size of the moon
or your own body
on a july night when 
you turn 18 years old
& wonder why your body has
yet to turn into a star
or at least a dying mountain--
you wait patiently but
your femurs are stone--
the process of erosion
is a story of linking 
elbows & burying
your arm bones
in your own backyard--
a story of 
crawling beneath 
the boulder & sacrificing
the skeletons 
from inside our ears--
i don't know you yet
but i want to ask
you to take your feet &
with me-- become a process of
my erosion-- 
let's wear
down these appalachians--
watch the mountain 
side shrink to fit
inside the palms of our hands--
hold the tiny mountains 
up to our ears like conch shells
& listen for the faint call
of a hawk--
set out our shrunken summits
on our desks & write
each other into stories--
into femurs--
into stone to be
eroded by rain &
each other's canvas shoes--
let's kiss these peaks
back into the earth--
unbury our arm bones
from the backyard & 
feel ourselves 
ever so slowly
eroding into stars--

in preparation for our lives
by flashlight

we built a blanket fort 
& called it the moon--
stole our mother's bed sheets
from the river-- hauled 
them in with all our hands
while the morning was still 
just a blush on our cheek bones--
pulled the clothespins 
from the wire outside
& watched as all our
dresses blew away
like dandelion tufts
or white blossoms from 
the plum trees growing
in the courtyard-- 
we pinned them up until
everyone on earth was 
having the same sleep over
that none of our parents 
had agreed to--
this is how we came upon
the eclipse--
our blanket fort in front
of the sun only none
of us knew how to 
take it down & after
two hours had passed we
all began to worry 
we had succeeded in 
our mischievous endeavors
to put a lid on the sun--
by flashlight we
all gathered in backyard--
shown lights on faces & 
told stories about 
the heat of the sun on
our bodies-- the waves
off the sidewalk in august--
by the third day 
we passed around matches
& struck them one by one
as if to make silent
prayers for the sun to return--
each of us making our
own attempts to pull down the
blanket fort & all our
mothers warned us not
to play with her bed sheets--
from the bottom branch
of the maple tree
we kiss someone who we can 
barely see-- we think
we could be in love
if we had enough time to shine
our flash lights on
each other's faces-- but it's hard
to hold a flash light
& climb a tree &
we say that when the sun comes
back again we'll find each
other & see what our
faces look out of darkness--
we gave up on street lights &
those fake candles in the windows--
& eventually the light bulbs
began to recede into
the perpetual night-- little
dying stars in each household--
our world became the inside of a
closed umbrella--
we filled our hands with 
rain & dump our palms into
the river to coax the blankets back
to where they came from--
oh & over year after year
for some reason our flashlights never
failed & long after i
am gone & have given up
looking for boys i've kissed
on the bottom branches
of maple trees our children will
maybe glance where our sun was--
put their grandfather's flashlight
to their face & ask what 
ever happened to
the great light in the sky 
that had the strength
to make the morning blush 
& the asphalt splash
in waves

if i were an absurd sculpture in 
the park

if i were an absurd statue
in the park i would be rusted
& half-smiling like
the moon & on 
an august night when everyone
feels like they're evaporating--
people might mistake me
for a malformed tree limb
or a fragment of an
escaped dream--
a shard of bone stolen
from their rib cage to 
build a new person out
of metal--
i become the weather-- 
great lips pressed up
against the brass mouth piece
of the morning when the 
dew collects all over my body--
sometimes children would 
wipe the water off on their sleeves--
write their names into
the layer of mist--
watch their fingers become--
become gaping-mouthed
tulips-- become stolen 
rib-bones growing into statues
out of a patch of mulch--
the night time would be my favorite
& i would watch you meander 
down between the lamp posts 
& you wouldn't remember
the night we climbed to the top
of the red plastic 
slide because i would
be just a statue-- 
but i would would remember
how you held me like a wooden
spoon & we dipped heavy 
into a soupy august night
to stir up the clouds--
took sips of each others
teeth-- slid down the slide--
using our bodies as promises 
written on folded pieces of paper--
another couple kisses
wild on a bench & the street
lamps avert their eyes
& the two of them kiss
in absolute & utter darkness
there in the park where
the cicadas are making their
way back down to the core
of the earth to re-learn
the love-song of the sun--
their plucking each leaf from the
the trees as they go &
i watch august bleed
open red-- 
scabs off in september
where i rested my legs across
your lap & you cut strands of 
my hair off one by one
to sew a husk of corn--
i'd give up my life as statue
if you wanted to be a fox with
me or a feral cat who
lives under the older roller 
skating rink--
we could escape the park
& ramble in the corn field--
eat kernels from the cob
all through autumn-- let
the combines till us into the
soil & grown stalks from
our bones the next year--
yes i know i would dream 
a lot for a sculpture in
the park-- absurd & 
twisted like our first kiss
from the top of the red slide--
but i would love to
wait their
& watch everything happen
more slowly--
let the water peel off
layer after layer of rust
as if i were an eternal 
clementine the world
was trying to open--