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

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.