in attempts to fill my room

when it's too
quiet my bedroom 
becomes a mouth
whose throat is just getting
wider & wider--
deeper & deeper-- 
a trench at the bottom 
of the ocean gulping down
more & more gallons of salt water--
a tongue stretching out like 
a highway for me to 
make my bed on--
hollow breaths echo off each tooth
jutting from the walls--
it chews me up-- 
molars on my ear drums-- 
grind me into a piece 
of silent air--
it bends my spine like
the axis of a feather--
when i can't take the
quiet anymore i usually  
lay on my back & draw
storm clouds on my ceiling
using the crummy eraser on
the back of my number 2 pencil--
smudgy & grey &
i blow off the little 
pink squiggles so the cloud 
can take hold & start to break
into a storm--
it makes the sound of static 
on the television &
it pours down all over
my bed & my bookshelves until
the spines of my books
come off like overripe banana 
peels--
i give up all your words 
& fill
the open mouth with snow
& rain & static
melting into the carpet--
i get a waste basket & try to scoop
them back up before 
they all melt away &
sitting on the floor of
my bed room in a sopping
pile of misplaced punctuation
& separated similes
i cry the kind of cry 
that fill your whole mouth--
the kind of cry that 
marks the yellow
stripes
on the highway unfurling
in your throat--
from the melting words
i make a poem that doesn't
sound like a poem because
it doesn't rhyme--
but i don't like poetry
that rhymes anyway
& my poem is about
the street lamp outside
my window & wanting to pluck
it out of the ground like
a dandelion & blow
all the light out
of its head so that
there would be a field of
a thousand street lamps 
for me to look for you beneath--
i wipe the storm cloud off
my ceiling & find a dry towel
to wrap myself--
when you think of me walk out
under the street light &
peel off a layer of shadow
so i know you were there--
outside it starts to rain
& i open my window & 
the silence rushes out
of my room & meanderings 
down the street on 
cat haunches--

where will you go inside the
blue suitcase?

when we used to 
go on vacation my suitcase
was always the baby blue 
one that clicks shut
like a great big shark's
mouth taking a bite out
of back seat oof
my mother's station wagon
packed to the ceiling 
with bags--
i would lean my head out the 
window to 
dip my forehead in the
clouds-- 
the window combed my
hair with teeth made
of sharp flecks of sun--
i filled the suitcase
with all the necessary 
provisions: the back flap 
full of beanie babies &
the other flap with underwear
& the one white training
bra
that i only wore sometimes
when i felt like it--
i had one dress in case we
ended up somewhere fancy &
the dress was white with
prints of kiwi fruit on it--
it had a ziplock pouch just
for a tooth brush & "toiletries"
which i thought was a funny word
because it has the word "toilet"
in it but it's still supposed 
to sound dignified & fancy--
so at night at the beach house 
by the light of a paper plate
moon-- i opened up the 
suitcase & crawled inside--
let the lock click behind me
& sensed my body drawn into itself--
felt the world take me under her
tongue & suck on me
like a lemon drop-- i thinned 
& melted & the moon 
disposed of herself--
crumpled & floating in the water--
in the morning
we walked out on the dock &
fished for crab with rods
& hunks of squid that jiggled &
smelled like ocean--
when we caught them we plopped
them back into the channel
only i slip some
of mine
into my suitcase &
at night their scuttling 
made me feel guilty for
trying to harbor the ocean--
i stole handfuls of sand--
broken shells-- stuffed in
a tall thrashing reed & a horseshow
crab who had been flipped
over on the shore--
inside the suitcase the
waves started to break--
seagulls called from their feathers
& it became harder & harder
to lift the thing by the 
handle--
i just wanted to take
it all home with me-- open
the suitcase up & come
back to the water & the dock
& the world in a thin
white dress covered in
kiwis-- walk on the beach
while the crabs snipped 
at the moon turning
into a boat with green lights--
i've kept it all for myself
inside the blue suitcase but
tonight i'm opening it up
& letting the water surge
out my back porch--
waves crash in the parking 
lot & dip my toes
in the remnants of sand &
on the adirondack chair 
i perch to ring out
the salt water from each 
beanie baby & from the 
white dress now smelling
like squid--
i leave the suitcase open
there to air out & the
moon comes down to sit inside--
i shoo her away & 
tell her climb back up
& i'll come out & visit
her when my white dress dries 
& the tide comes into
the back steps of my house--

for those of us who have to
count the stars without names

this is a poem
for people like
me who live with 
a throat full of numbers--
i laugh in threes-- blink--
five times-- 
it takes twelve
foot steps to get to 
the door knob-- turn it twice--
we only have one moon
but i have an infinite 
amount of numbers to 
call upon & they're all 
lodged in my teeth--
i open the window & look
out to innumerate the fragments
of body outside my skin--
sometimes i count the stars
with out names to pretend 
all this counting is adding up
to something &
when i fell from the window 
my chalk outline became
a constellation made up
of the 
un-countable borrowed stars--
i un-clipped orion's belt
& made it into a sash--
filled the big dipper with
peanut butter &
put it in my mouth--
took off the claws of ursa
major one by one until my 
nails were sharp enough
to cut off all the tops of
the trees poking into the 
the sky
-- if you know
me you know that 
i have the task of
counting all these stars
with out names--
i do so under my breath
& sitting up at the end of 
my bed in the middle of
the night when other 
people curl themselves up
like punctuation marks--
these commas-- 
i sleep
like a semi-colon--
wake up an asterisk--
all these numbers
rotting away my teeth
& i have another dream of 
them falling out of my skull
& onto the carpet--
i count breaths & ceiling tiles
& uneven squares of sidewalk--
unhinge my rib cage-- 
let loose the moths to 
knock themselves against 
the porch light for another
evening &
my father comes out &
tells me to call it a night
but there's still more
to count-- 
so, there i was
at the window falling out
& falling out & falling out
until i'm the constellation
on the pavement--
i open my mouth & outcome 
a swarm of numbers counting 
each other & counting me
& counting again
the stars without names--
the ones that have gone
dark before we could see
them-- invisible & haunting 
the soft underbelly 
of the one & only moon-- 
we only have one moon--

in the mouth of a shadow puppet 

when i write my mouth
opens as big as the sky 
& then i'm just the goldfish
we won at my fifth grade
carnival by throwing ping pong
balls into little jars--
i push my face against
the glass until it turns
into a movie screen--
we're at the theater
in my home town-- the one
who still has a big red curtain
that opens when the picture begins--
i fall as droplets of water
always trickling from the ceiling
& plopping onto the heads of 
teenagers on first dates--
i fall underneath the dilapidated
seats next to popcorn & 
jewel-bare ring-pops 
& the back of an earring 
that a girl with red hair &
short finger nails will 
always wonder about--
the movie ends & i watch myself
leave on a date with 
my best friend--
we're both gay now but
back then it was nice
to share shoulders & walks 
home from school--
the screen goes dark & 
i crawl out from under the
seat with the whole theater
to myself--
i stretch out my arms &
tell the ghosts to 
come out from behind the
screen--
all the girls on first 
dates & 
dads taking their
sons to see war movies &
mothers watching computer
animated dogs
even though it makes then
feel squeamish--
the blink wildly & stagger
about the room in the dark-- 
fumbling for their seats
again--
i steal the moon to
use as a projector because
theaters are all digital now--
screen white-- i crouch low
in the little technical room 
& my fingers roar in shadow 
puppets--
i tell stories about dragons
& arms that turn into snakes--
fingers that fly away from
you & boys who kiss the moon--
the ghosts clap & i bow
as a shadow--
in the morning 
they hide back behind the curtains
& i walk out the front door
of the theater after
taking a box of raisinettes
from behind the snack counter--
i eat a handful & open
my mouth again 
wide as the sun-- i burn
my tongue like this on
hot planets & my own
tall tall
shadow

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--