chinese buffets/making god

i believed in chinese buffets
& plastic koi ponds.
i would sit there & gently worship--
watching the fish circle & pull their
veil-like fins over their faces while
my uncle & i waited to be
seated at the 
JUMBO CHINESE BUFFET ONE

the place was wedged in
a strip mall on this 
highway prickly with motels
& brambles of fast food
chains--
an arby's with a big
neon hat & a mcdonalds
with a big outdoor play area--
there was an
Ollie's & a used video game store
next door.

up the street lay
the carcass of the 
The Fairground Square Mall-- 
now only good
for Annie's pretzels & rocking
back & forth on kiddie rides--
elephants & dragons desperately
swallowing quarters &
swaying--

the buffet was an exhibition
underneath heat lamps.
i used metal tongs to pluck
hunks of saucy-fried
meats from metal trays 
& scoop nests of vegetable lo mein 
on my plate--

we never said grace at the
chinese buffet even though
we said it just about every
other restaurant (at least when i was 
seven)

instead at the chinese
buffet he let me roam free-
plate in hand & tall glass
of sprite waiting at our table--

we traded glazed chicken &
fumbled with chop sticks 
to pick up spools of sushi--

this is the art of making
god-- i thought as i 
used a whole trip to
stack my plate with 
"Chinese doughnuts"-- wads
of fried dough-- blushing
golden brown & glittering--

fingers gritty with sugar
i washed them off
in the koi fish pond & dove
down inside to lay there
& look up at the ceiling--
belly weighed down with 
plate after plate of
approximatedly asian cuisine-- 
from there the fish swam over my
head-- their wispy tails
like clouds obstructing the
neon lights of the restaurant 

what do you know about making god?
(they ask-- as most fish are curious
animals) & i tell them 
that i know you can pick him
up with a pair of metal tongs
& share him with your uncle across
a table-- that he folds himself
like a napkin in your lap--
a fork when you're too clumsy for
chop sticks-- chop sticks when
your too prideful to use a fork--

i tell them i like it in the bottom
of the koi pond at the
JUMBO CHINESE BUFFET ONE
& they tell me to be careful
not to fall asleep or i might
drown & wake up in a tray
under the heat lamps-- 
my body a wad of fried dough--
shimmering & coated in sugar--

i blink & i open my
eyes
to see my uncle shoveling 
chicken fried rice into his
mouth-- there's still three 
doughnuts on my plate.

i float on the back of
one of the koi fish & i believe
entirely in plastic fish ponds
& making collages of colorful
foods

i think to myself as the
fish chase food pellets between
the decorative green & blue pebbles 
that if anything god is maybe
a pair of
metal tongs-- the veil of
a koi fish-- 
the blush of a heat over
my head-- 

when the bottom falls out of the bathtub &
your body becomes a monstrous rain

face-up in the bathtub 
i puffed out my stomach to
use as an island for my plastic
apatosaurus & rubber ducks.
the yellow ducks' bellies 
were full of
suds & when you squeezed them
their beaks bubbled a sticky foam.
they walked cautiously 
on the breathing island
before dipping back into 
the bathtub-- floating like
rigor mortis leaves
dropped in a stream--
i loved how small water 
made me feel-- 
my hair was full of monstrous
rain-- the type that 
snare drum smacked 
windows-- i was the girl
who always found a way to
get her clothing soaked--
water poured in
through to the storm clouds
in my marrows-- filled my
socks with minnows & my
sleeves with water reeds.
i pulled the shower curtain 
closed so i could be more alone & pretended 
it was a curtain to a great magician 
show. it hid the girl 
with amphibian skin & the water was
darker now & more ominous--
submerging myself in the dimly
lit water. i felt the bottom
fall out of the bathtub
& my body start to sink.
my arms & my legs got
lighter & my hair unfurled like
a spilled pot of spaghetti--
i was scared to open my eyes but when
i did everything was dark-- the ocean
beneath me was resting & 
i felt the bodies of fish
brush past across my thighs.
down around my toes a strand of
kelp tickled my heel & i laughed my
lungs full of salt water.
i sank further & further until the 
ocean became dotted with angler fish 
lights & bio-luminescent bodies
who seemed to make neon signs 
in the water-- i wasn't scared of
the angler fish like most people
would be because she was so much
like me-- crooked teeth & 
flashlight & fear of the dark--
i followed her to her own bathtub
& there we both laid face up again 
to look up at the whole ocean
above us-- we could see my brother
in his blue swim trunks & 
the yellow rubber ducks 
gargling foam--
when i open my eyes i'm surprised 
to find myself still 
in the bathroom-- the bottom 
restored to the bathtub-- i touch
it with my open hand to see
if it might fall-out again.
i sit up & my body folds onto itself
which always makes me feel like
a hippo or an elephant--
this is back when i was young
enough to not mind being a hippo
or an elephant-- 
i sit on all fours & dip my hair
down in the water
like a paint brush
i let my
body fill with another
monstrous rain 
& i turn on the shower head
to walk through
the amazon river
on all fours-- the piranhas
nibbling on my knees-- 
when i get out & dry myself in the
towel i look back at the
tub & i feel like everything
is so small & i want to know
who else can fit the world
inside a bathtub-- 
i hope to see you some day 
on all fours in the amazon--
we can spot tropical birds &
maybe we can take baths with 
the angler fish-- push
harder on the bottom of 
your bathtub-- listen to
your body so you know
when you want to rain--
drop yourself like a bowl
of watercolors or 
like the shattering of the 
bottom of the bathtub 
into the great deep ocean--

rest in stanza 

let's pretend the names
on the tombstones are poems.
maybe they're written
in another language neither
of us know-- but i like
the shape of them-- 
i appreciate their
use of center alignment & hyphens.

lay in front of one
with me & let's comment on
the purpose of the line breaks
or maybe the use of 
repetition-- last names dug 
over & over into stone
until they sound like a hymn
or a song bird's mating call
hurled into 
the surrounding evergreen trees.
maybe these stones are 
an appeal-- a request for 
people to stop turning
into lines on rocks for
young girls to make 
poetry out of.

i want to apologize for
all i've wondered about people
buried under my feet--
what colors they looked for
in a sunset-- 
what flavor of birthday cake
they liked best-- if they
used box mixes--
if they ate their 
scrambled eggs with ketchup &
if they notice the fake flowers
& little american flags people
plant around their tombstones.
Maybe they feel their decorations like 
broaches pinned onto their chests.

i imagine it would be difficult 
to rest in peace
with all the foot steps
coming down through the grass--
toddler sandals & 
grandmother church shoes &
the sneakers of joggers
who power up
cemetery hill to sweat 
like oak trees in september.

when i die i hope 
i die inconspicuously like how
the trees lose their leaves--
one at a time until their bodies
are all over the ground--
crunching under your feet
& making the air smell maroon &
amber & clementine--

i want to be around you
all at once-- caught in a
merry-go-round of wind--
flailing in browns & golds--
burning like september's
sun stuck in the memory
of june.
i want you to make poetry out
of me-- out of every 
stanza i become.
i don't want to be a line
in stone but you 
can make me a poem--
a metaphor-- the personification
of the patches of unruly
grass in the graveyard where
the the mower doesn't reach--

stick pinwheels in my dirt
so you can watch me race the wind--
i'll meet you again when 
all the leaves are sleeping
as bookmarks-- dog ear
this page & come
back when we're both listening
to feet fall above our heads--
turn pages of stone-- 

say each name like a song bird
shouting maroon into the sunset
to look for someone to make
sense of his own voice-- 

the moon fit on the face of a penny 

you can't tell the sun to 
go to sleep in august-- she
reads by flashlight
like i never did--
i envy the kids who had
that kind of focus to
crawl under their on blanket
canopies & walk on the roof
tops
of words-- have always been
a back porch person--
i don't pick up the moon on my
my night time walk because 
it's a heads down penny &
those are bad luck--
i'll wait for a day when it's a 
quarter or a nickle but never a dime 
because dimes have a way of 
getting lost-- 
i need an umbrella out here
to shelter myself from 
falling flower petals off
& stumbling stars--
the bees get drunk on the 
stone path from nectar & 
drops of star light--
they buzz in the backdrop
of disembodied voices--
the cicadas all hiding & singing--
a bird crooning to 
his lover from between
two telephone wires--
i remember the first time i discovered
binoculars in our attic--
i rushed outside to try them 
out on the night sky & they didn't
work too well at catching stars but
across the yard i saw our
neighbor in her window--
so much like a ghost in a pink bathroom
& maybe she was washing dishes &
maybe she was wiping off her hands--
her mouth moved like a puppet 
& i couldn't see who she was talking to
but she smiled in a way that you
only do when no one is watching you &
i felt so small-- like my entire
existence could fit inside the frame
of a penny or a moon--
i stepped inside the lens of the binocular 
so that i could see everyone like that--
in their windows-- making themselves 
a game of quiet charades--
i turned back to my own
window & saw myself their combing my
long brown hair wet from a shower--
i want to wave to her but i'm stuck
inside the left binocular-- focusing
in on the moon & trying to
see the face everyone has been talking about--
when i climb out the bruises
of dusk are gone & the night 
is heavy in the downpour
of street lights & blinking
kitchen windows--
my neighbor has left the portrait
her figure made behind the glass & i 
hang the binoculars back around my neck--
i go back to the stone path around
my house where i walk myself 
into a blank page-- my body a
comma maybe or an em-dash--
i trust a night in august--
she's reading the people in
their windows like no one expects to
be watched-- 
the august night is somewhere between
a mother & a dropped coin--
pick her up & keep 
her in your back pocket
for when the sun puts the street lamps
out-- as careful as an acolyte--
snuffing out her candles one
by one--  

take your shoes off at the door

let's escape back into our
bodies tonight-- i want to show 
you something inside me.
go ahead--
strap me down in the dentist 
chair. this time i won't squirm
quite as much.
fight sleep with me-- 
fight laughing gas--
fight anesthesia 
     fight the rustling
of the moon in my back pocket--
here hold it for me & give it
back when we wake up--

often when i lay on my back
in bed i feel light bulbs
bursting from the ceiling &
there i am again getting
a cluster of teeth pulled out
or a hole drilled so far
in the back of my head that
i didn't know 
i had teeth there--
mouth fulls of the taste
of gloves.

i'm inviting you inside-- peel
my mouth open & take off
your shoes before
you enter-- one 
step
     at a time-- use my teeth
as a staircase & slide down 
my gravely tongue.

what all do you keep in the
small cavern of
your body? 

how much of yourself
have you eaten?

take notes on the stalagmites
& stalactites & forget
which one's are on the ceiling
& which ones grow like 
crooked dog's teeth--
remember to hold
hard lemon candies beneath
your tongue or in the
pockets of your checks like
a secret-- growing thinner
& thinner until it is spoken.

i wanted to show you what i look
like on the inside-- all
pink & full of watermelon vines
from
all the seeds i've gulped down
without thinking-- 

trim the apple trees trying
to take roots in my pelvis--
visit the grape vines making
a loom of my ribs--

take me in-- 
fill your backpack with
fruits-- 
write down my laughter
as it descends down
the lining of my throat--
make sketches of the fears
god etched in my bones with 
a paring knife--

before you go 
i want 
you to walk back up the staircase
of my teeth-- crawl higher 
& take a seat behind
my eyes-- 
adjust them 
like your own kaleidoscopes
a handful of color--

i take the moon out of my 
back pocket as a snack
& everything inside me
turns bright & brilliant--

have you been brave enough
to eat planets out of the sky?

put your shoes back on
when you exit-- 
i'll still be laying looking
up at the ceiling--
half expecting it crash down
on me-- half expecting the
sun to come barging through-- 

dress up

did you notice tonight 
how all the trees are made of your 
great-grandmother's yellow sweater?
you step outside to go harvesting because
you remember losing that
sweater at the museum 
when you were shorter than the
kitchen counter. 
you dreamed about it for
weeks after your mother told
you it was one of the last things
she had left from her grandmother--
you remembered how it felt around you
& wondered if she knew you were 
wearing it.
you don't know your grandmother's
name or what her face looks like.
sometimes you wander out
into the forest in the back yard--
the one that spills down from
the mountain.
the trees are made from all
your dead relatives clothing
& the bushes are ripe with 
costume jewelry--
broaches & clip-on earrings &
necklaces of fake pearls strung as
plump as blueberries.
they're engorged from
weeks of eating moonlight.
you walk until you can't see
the porch light anymore & 
sleeves dangling from each branch 
sway in the tentative july breeze--
as you walk the clothing takes
you into the skeletons of
different people--
your grandfather's blue jeans
sag around your waist until
a leather belt pulls them up with
a whoosh from the belt wrapping tight
& your back bends like
a comma-- 
take a breath & 
swallow your feet into your
other grandmother's pointy
colorful shoes-- 
the glossy ones 
with the squares of red & blue
& pink & lime green--
around the bend hangs
the grove of your father's 
canvas shoes. 
in side it dwells each pair he
laid to rest-- 
gnarled laces
dripping between brambles
of misplaced zippers-- 
they knot
you up like spider webs.
you try them on one at a time &
eventually you find a pair that
fits you-- they're black (of course)
& the souls are so worn down that
you can feel each stone
beneath your feet.
the farther you walk the more
layers of clothing you gather--
a shimmery blue dress with frills sewed
by your grandmother-- a rain bonnet
from aunt joan-- a turtle-neck sweater
from cousin donna & 
your mother's jean overalls with the
pocket in the front--
heavy & hot with clothing you
kneel by the moon--lay down
to sleep in the blankets of clothing
& jewelry the trees have adorned you
in-- they sing about how beautiful &
handsome you look to be able to pull
off so many different fashions--
ears bitten full of clip-on earrings  &
neck embroidered with reigns of 
fake jewels you
close your eyes & wake up empty
in the back yard where we have
always only had two trees--
neither of which make of sleeves--
your eye lobes still throb 
from the clip-ons.

drive us home

drive us home.
the tide is coming in again.
the sky bruises from
your body smacking up
against hers
in your uncontrollable
attempts at flight.
you were trying
to shatter a hole
through the sky to let
the stars in. 
they swarm like gnats 
buzzing against the flushed
face of a lamp bulb on the porch.
i drive home at dusk because
i like to watch the way 
the land changes in the dark &
how august grows out everywhere
to take you in--
you get to feel like a blood
vessel or a jupiter beetle.
whatever happened to all the lightning
bugs?-- i ask to no one 
from behind the wheel of my car.
i remember them as i'm 
bat by corn husk eye-lashes 
-- their bodies whipping 
under a trance
from the moon.
she's growing fuller
with each headlight philosopher
who pauses to think about how
much their bodies have changed.
we become part of 
the rising of tides of corn.
we're lost but we don't know it yet
because of how much different the road
looks at night with the shadows 
loaning their bodies to 
everyone's ghosts.
i want to be smaller & wet
from a shower--
pretending i just stepped out
from the rain forest--
i want my father to hold
me in a towel like a bruised
plum-- i pull leeches
out from under my eyes & my
skin is left the color
of the last notes of sunset--
we've written so many poems about
dusk that it almost felt futile
for me to try to tell you
about how the drive home feels
sometimes-- especially
when your car grows a sail & the 
tides rise under the glow
of the occasional porch light--
we're nothing really.
we're a collage of memories about
falling asleep in a passenger seat
& trying not to let the waves 
sweep us under & into the soft
wet soil--
i want to be peeled open
like an ear of corn--
yellow & white & listening 
for the wind to teach the fields
to hush--
i spend the whole drive wanting to just
pull over--
i don't know what i would do once
i was pulled over but
maybe i could run my thumb over
the bruised forehead of the coming night
sky-- 
pluck out a few stars like blueberries.
i'll keep them in my pockets 
 &
promise to give them back someday 
on another ride home when
i think too much about all
the hurt i've given the sky
to make her bruise so easily
under the weight of people
wanting
to go back to homes they no
longer have & bodies they
no longer live in--
i see her in the shadows 
off the stalks-- a small girl
as tall as an ear of corn--
i bite down & gnaw
her out of the road.
i tell her to help me
drive home without falling asleep
& she does & 
back in my room i wonder
how much of the roads we
drive are made from fragments of
our old bodies teaching us 
what it means to grow--
peeling us open & tossing away
each layer of husk until
we're naked & white &
laying face up on our beds--
body sprawled open
to catch any stars if they 
should fall-- buzzing & burned
from the scortch of the moon. 

on learning your body is a fig tree

the first time you wrap your
breasts you understand fig 
trees in winter. 
in the north east 
they grow like permanent immigrants--
a constant process of waiting-- 
passports in their pocket-books & 
they trim their finger nails
in the sink & think to themselves
how their body comes so easily apart
like the lobes of a clementine
or the unfurling of the moon
as it's whittled down by 
a dull-knifed god who whistles 
in apple seeds until there
is nothing left of it in the sky--
a dark night of star fragments &
cloud--
all of the lunar body 
sold away to keep his dandelion
promises 
& all there is left to do is wait
with your  
roots balled in the
back of a garage-- 
remaining
there till the windows clear 
of frost--
you grow figs on the inside of
your body-- plump & 
glistening like sugar stones--
you slice them off with 
a paring knife & crouch naked 
on your knees to see what the inside
looks like 
a fist of syrup dripping
between your fingers--
you say 
"this. this is my body"
wrapped tight & you 
spend the rest of the day
picking the fig fruit
from inside yourself-- filling
cardboard pints & giving
them away 
to let strangers 
eat them & tell you that
they taste strangely melancholy--
like stale gummy worms or 
over-ripe peaches--
brown & drunk with sun--
so i wrap myself up tighter
again & wait for april to
come with the fruits again--
faint & green protruding
from my chest-- i prune myself
in the bathroom mirror &
branches collect on the tile floor--
leaves clog the drain &
i stand impossibly ripe
in the shower trying
to stop my body's shape from
blushing hot in the sun--
i'm starting with a paring knife
across my shadow-- 
one fig at a time & then
wrapping myself up tight again--
i pray to stop growing like this &
i watch god replace the moon
with a heads-down penny 
from his breast- pocket-- 
he promises
tomorrow night he'll flip it
& we can make bets about
the color of the apples this year. 
being trans means owning
a body like a fig tree-- 
a clogged
drain full of leaves &
an obsession with watching
how gracefully the moon can change
her shape without thinking--

vending machine pilgrimages 
to the edge of a dial tone

1.
approach the vending machine &
try several times to insert
the crinkled dollar bill from
the back of your pocket--
the one with someone's phone
number scrawl above washington's
head like a password--

2.
write down their number
in your phone contacts 
& tell yourself you'll
call them one day &
let them know that their
phone number is on a dollar
floating above washington's
head like a halo--
maybe a lover scribbled 
the contact down after a night
in the city together--
by the light of passing street
lamps in the back of
a taxi 
he promised to call back--
he always promises to call back 

3.
enter the code
for the item you
intend on purchasing with 
the crinkled dollar which
the vending machine finally
accepts after several
pleads & presses

4.
enter 'EXIT'

5.
wait a moment to ensure
no one else is watching you--
no one else is allowed to
be watching you--

6.
when you think you're
alone is when you should be 
most cautious--

7.
open the flap & reach your
hand inside like you mom 
always told you not to do
even if your bag of twizzlers 
was caught on a rung
on the way down--

8.
there is a moment of 
disbelief when you first encounter
a vending machine-- it's
as if you alone have the power to
conjure items from 
the slot at the bottom--
when i would visit my mother
at work i liked to sit 
in the break room &
parcel out my quarters to make
the most items as possible
fall from the little rows
inside the vending machine--

9.
now open the flap wider--
yes wider--
yes like the mouth of a snake--
clutch the quarters in your fist

10.
now it's wide enough to 
crawl inside--

11.
crawl inside--
make sure you shut the
flap behind you-- you wouldn't
want anyone else getting ideas--
this is yours now--
all yours--

12.
peel back past the rows of
marching items--you're here to
go deeper

13.
you reach farther & your
hand touches a dark damp
surface like dewy grass &
you can't see anything but
you know you have to go further--
it's dark back there behind
the rows but it's getting
bigger & bigger & less cramped--
& after yanking through the snugness
everything is open-- black 
& vast & blaring--

14.
silence can be so loud

15.
you don't think about
leaving or how you would leave 

16.
you think about wrapping your
entire body in plastic--
you think about silence & 
how loud it is
you remember feeling around
at the back of your closet
after reading 
the chronicles of narnia 
& wondering if there would
ever come a day with a door
just to escape through

17.
& in the darkness you
remember the number on the dollar
bill-- you repeat it over & over
so you won't forget but
for the first time 
you can't find your phone so
instead you whisper the numbers 
over & over as if pressing keys  
in the air with your tongue

18.
dial tone
dial tone

the birdcage metaphor

i will be another person
to describe my body
as a birdcage-- only
this
time it's being used 
as a garden & i can feel
the purple petals of the
african violets pressing
up against each rung of
my chest-- 
i spit out flowers & my
esophagus become a stamen  
my tongue grainy & dripping
with pollen i double over
like daffodils after a bite
of post-winter frost--
heave yellow dust from my
mouth & out my throw crawls
the heads of the hydrangeas--
i open wider to pull 
them out-- 
one by one--
each cloud of petals reminds
me of tufts of cotton candy
& i take a bite but it reminds
me how bitter flower petals are--
i take a match stick
to the dripping purple & blue
hydrangea skulls & they ignite--
burn like basement light bulbs
or dim porch lamps cluttered 
with moth wings--
the petals push harder & harder
on the inside of my chest--
there's no way out but through my
finger nails & there's never been
enough fire to take from the
moon to prevent my body from
going up in a blaze of vine
& bloom-- 
this is the kind of
death we get;
on our knees mouth wide open 
& full of burning flowers
we can no longer pull out--
this is another birdcage 
metaphor about what it's like
to live trapped inside a body--
& the hydrangeas are my mother's favorite--
she says they used to grow 
around the outside of her grandmother's
house-- & sometimes i ask myself
what kind of house i'm living in--
with no room to breathe between 
the impatient fists of violets 
& the grit of yellow pollen
on my teeth--
i bloom burst & take my freckles off
as seeds to plant some flower
less likely to catch fire in the
heels of my feet-- stems
branch up through my ankles--
wilt with me 
in this post-winter frost--
can't you feel the pollen under your
tongue? dry & sweet 
& prying apart your teeth
to make room for more petals--