post cards from arizona & jars full of rain

i tipped over the terrarium
& the two toads scampered free
into the hot breath of july rain--
the trail was saturated in twilight
color-- jagged emerald leaves--
each gravel of the trail by
the stream was a freckle
washing away in the dwindling storm--
i told them to write to me &
left my address on a sticky note
on the ground next to them--
i said
tell me where you go
& where this rain takes you--
i watched them crawl into 
the forest-- caressed as
if to pull their mother's long
skirt over their heads--
i cried not because i had let
my two pet toads go but
because when i was little
& freckled 
& emerald green-- 
my father 
& i would catch toads--
i would beg him to keep them 
in the terrarium or the sand pale
on night longer but we eventually let
them go into the yard by
the sun of a porch light--
growing up is something about
release & keeping mason jars full
of rain from all your favorite storms--
at home i keep them in the cupboard
by the fireplace-- open them up
when i want it to rain from the
ceiling even if only briefly--
there are storm clouds collecting beneath
our pillows-- hail falling
from the arms of a ceiling fan--
turn on the sun &
wash the gravel from my hair & my hands--
i sat in the back seat of my car
to twist on the lid to the mason jar full of
rain from the storm
my toads went back to-- i put the
jar in the trunk & now i open
it sometimes when i feel especially lonely--
they return-- the both of them
--hop across the floor of the living
room-- mouths full of crickets--
throats pulsing like trampolines--
on monday i get the first of many post cards--
an image from the petrified forest 
national park where all the trees
are only memories-- a fallen limp
across the from of the card with the national
park logo in the corner--
i find it odd that they decided to travel to
a place with so little rain-- i consider
sending them a mason jar but i suppose
if they had wanted rain they would know
where to find it--
the card doesn't say much--
only that they had stopped at a lovely
mexican eatery on the way down & 
that they hardly ever considered eating
crickets anymore--
i don't write back to them--
just keep the postal cards in the top
drawer of my desk--
i leave their terrarium empty
& somehow haunted 
in the open window of my room--
the rain falls again from the ceiling
fan & i return to the front
seat of the car to drive home--
gravel freckled & green 
from the rain-- 

7th grade mummification

i like to say i
hardly remember 7th
grade-- i know i must have
discovered checker-board vans 
& the thrift store that sold 
fifty-cent fish nets &
neon skinny jeans & olive green
eyeliner that orbited my lids 
like saturn rings--
in 7th grade we were got busy
re-living ancient 
history in a class devoted
to re-building the pyramids 
& erecting edible ziggurats 
from our desks--
pink frosting cake & 
kitkat temples 
for the ceiling tile gods--let's
build ourselves closer to the
sky-- none of us should get taller--
opened the windows & thought
about falling two stories
down to the soccer field below
where all the boys played capture the
flag-- grass stain gladiators 
& we all wanted boyfriends
after we learned about the pharaohs--
at least then we wouldn't die alone--
twelve years or two-thousand-- we were
far too old to die so young--
if nothing else we knew we believed
in the river to the underworld--
the one where they would weigh your heart 
against a feather--
we all knew we were too heavy--
we all know we would watch
our hearts swallowed by the devourer
as thoth-- the scribe
god would stroke the
gator-beast's neck-- there
we lay on the priest's table
in preparation for our inevitable
mummification in eighth period
history class-- i took the night
before to construct a mask of anubis
to conceal my face & i felt
powerful & ancient--
we took turns taking out each other's
organs & filling the canopic jars--
rubbing our bodies in salt to
keep our bodies clean & fresh 
for the afterlife we were too
heavy to reach-- blow away the
feathers with me-- then there'll
be nothing to weight us against--
sing a pyramid song with me
& i wore the anubis mask 
all period & after school until
i walked home
from school across the damp
grass of my backyard
adjacent to the school-- i removed
my ceremonial robes
in my room upstairs & looked
at the face of the once jackal-headed god--
plump freckled face of girl
so willing to attempt flight
out a window-- building pyramids
on her desks & reaching 
for the god who blared from
the white neon lights of each classroom--
we all secretly believed in
the love of isis & Osiris--
even if it was incest-- at
least they had each other
& a sun for a father-- what is there
to remember about 7th grade
if the soles still peeled off
my checker-board vans & the
fish nets were still too tight
to fit over my thighs--  
we small ancient people--
mummifying each other & filling
canopic jars with all the apologies
we'd save for our throats--
weigh my heart against the feather
i swear to you i'm not afraid
of how heavy i have been--

i feel like i don't deserve 

the love poems god writes 
to me-- 
her mountains that
nail a picture frame
around the murky blue 
& deep indigo sky--
her trees that hoist
the clouds on their backs &
shake silk worm nests from their
leg hairs--
my mother points out the
way the farm hills around kutztown
swell & crash in seams of corn &
patch-work soybean-- a tangled
thread cocoon & cursive poetry
tongue--
she is an iambic god--
a structural traditionalist
who unravels open into free verse as
she drops the moon from a yoyo string--
i hang on & get sucked into 
her night catalog of punctuation-- 
outside of kutztown we pass the
abandoned water park-- 
slides filled with ghost children
spilling down on their bellies--
wind-blown hair laughter rattles 
each twisted neck of blue shoots--
i feel empty like the water park sometimes--
like i want god to laugh into my
hair-- wash my freckles in chlorine--
i want to smell fresh & indigo &
stand at the top of the biggest slide
there with no fear of becoming a yoyo string--
come back & write me another poem
god-- & another & another
until the water starts flowing again--
i'm telling you, i'm going to buy 
that water park-- pull the
'for sale' sign out of the ground
& re-paint the
pirate statue by the front gate--
i would spend the first night sleeping
under the roof of one of the 
little pavilions-- laugh at how silly 
it all is-- watch the sunset blush
as she reads the same love story over
again-- the one where god loved
her enough to make her body an
act of poetry-- that's all
of us-- i think to myself
-- that's all of us-- a little
pocket notebook-- a knot 
in a yoyo string suspended
over a town called kutztown with
an un-abandoned water park 
jealous in the distance-- 
hush-- i'm here to fill you
up again--
i'm here to remind you
of all the space you have
left to  be filled & 
tonight the slides are dry &
i am feeling my body as a love
poem-- a husk of corn--
a nail in the side of the
mountain-- 
no i don't deserve the love
poetry god leaves for me--
writes into my body in the language
of freckles & 
sun burn from 
climbing up the ladder
to sit at the top of the tallest
slide in the water park
until the moon rolls off the yoyo
string & night is dark &
full of insect laughter &
the cautious chatter of stars
they give themselves away to me
as punctuation--
marble bags full of periods--
let's end this day in a circle 
or a seam-- a stitch in 
the hips of the hills--
bruised indigo & standing 
as determined as the fading
pirate statute at the gate 
to the water park that is
now another piece of 
this body--

by now

i could have walked anywhere
with the number of
steps i've collected
on morning walks alone-- 
i keep each footfall in a velvet
sack like
marbles -- 
learn to shoot them
with the flick of my thumb--
i ramble a railroad 
into the sidewalk
& at night i hear the engines
wail about the 
towns they've never stopped in--
they've listened 
all the names of towns & strip malls
we've wanted to 
pause in & never will-- there are so 
many diners with stools to spin on--
& gumball machines to wind like 
pocket watches--
by now i could have made
it to the grand central taproom
in fleetwood--
sat outside on the wooden bench
& waited for my mother & my father--
the two of them all full of sidewalks 
& their collection of steps
between each other--
my mother cuts crab cakes
with the side of her fork &
my father eats himself through
a bacon-cheeseburger--
they wipe their hands on
their laps & then pretend to use
napkins & they don't notice my
foot steps falling outside
on the pavement like hail--
this is before i was born 
but by now i could have trekked there
in exchange for all these mornings--
i could have meandered my way through
the hole in the backyard 
all the way to china-- brought
my aunt joan back a fish-tail
necklace & hung it on her tombstone--
i could have rambled on the 
backs of my marbles across 
the atlantic to my brother's 
front door in berlin where he pretends
to live the life of a bishop--
takes charge of a dwindling 
parish of stones-- gives homilies 
to the patient moon & i listen for
them when it's dark again--
his voice a beacon of sound like
the moan of the ceaseless railroads--
by now i could have wandered myself
into any of my tomorrows-- 
here's one where i'm still restless 
on a train to new york city again in
another attempt find god at the 
subway station at staton island--
where i saw our lady years ago--
i lugged the ferry on my back & 
saw myself at the railing-- leaning
too much-- always leaning too much--
too close to falling irrevocably into
the bay
yes i could have been there by
now-- on the swivel chairs at the
kutztown tavern where i turned
ten & ate fistfuls of a bar peanuts
& stout pretzels--
by now i could be hail on the sidewalk
in fleetwood or a congregation of stones
or fish tail necklaces pulled from
the mouth of the earth giving way to china 
but, instead,
i have these walks & these legs
who built themselves into railroad tracks--
i keep them all in a sack of marbles to 
trade for produce at the market up
the street from my house-- take my footsteps
for wild heads of ice berg lettuce &
a thick purple carrot thighs--
by now i could have walked sashes 
around the earth but i have been
here-- walking myself into a girl
into a boy into a sidewalk where leaves
stick like band aids in september & 
where the rain dries quickly
in the sun-- this is where i spent my
legs these years-- by now
by now i can call myself a train station--
a stomping ground for passengers to
board & crawl up on my shoulders
to look out at the little town i live
in by only pass through--
i'm still collecting steps & by
now, by now i have such veins 
that the subways are jealous--
i'm shooting my marbles into
the sea from the deck of the ferry &
they hit my brother's front door across
the ocean where he wakes up & finds
his floor covered in marbles &
he knows by now
i have been there too--

your red knot sister

i'll leave binoculars out for you,
for the next time i come home--
i'll set them on the staircase
up to the attic-- we're the 
bruises from our 
mother's african violets-- 
the finger prints no one
wipes off the glass--
misshapen purple thumbs--
this time you can watch for me--
see the embers burning to ash
across my back 
from tierra del fuego--
i'm flying back again from
a land of fire-- watch
as i drop my feathers
like atomic bombs-- shouting
all your bodies into shadows
on the living room walls--
we can make puppets 
out of our fingers 
we can pretend to be small 
enough again to hold the moon 
by its juicy white rind--
cut up the darkness 
& leave it in a metal bowl
in the sink-- 
spit stars out like seeds--
our father was always a watermelon
knife-- taught both of us
how to carve smiles our
of green jaws--
i want to know what it's like
to love a red knot-- the
bird with the longest migratory 
pattern-- the
bird whose home is an orbital path--
how does it feel to
watch me waver from here & there?
how could you love someone 
who can't help
but be in constant flight away 
from themself-- 
our father was like
this too-- 
in departure from his own fire--
sliced his teeth into the sink--
i drop my eyes on the beach like
horseshoe crab eggs-- angry orange
suns a glow in the absence 
daylight--
i waver in between-- a throat choked 
on all the words-- 
you wait for me to come back
as i always do-- 
the migratory sister-- a thumb
print on the outside of the window--
i'm going where i can set the snow on fire.
i stop on my way to the artic in our
back yard & we sit in the grass
beneath the christmas tree whose roots
we un-balled & taught how to take a fist
full of earth-- you tell me
to stay five minutes longer &
(like always) i leave early--
ducking under covered bridges & stopping
at a wawa to drink a diet orange soda
while i sit alone on my own bumper--
you see me with your binoculars 
as you look out from the attic-- i always
come back-- a body in migration & 
flame-- the sun coughed to make me &
to spite her i don't stop running--
a smoke signal reminding you that 
when all else fails you can always 
run-- fill your mouth with sun & 
drop feathers like bombs or
promises-- both equally as destructive
& equally as likely to leave shadows 
on the living room wall.

lost river caverns behind my knees

we all knew the caverns were 
a mouth-- 
skull full of calcite 
teeth-- the altar of a 
jaw bone-- you fill my
skull with bells-- let's
elope to the caves at the edge
of town-- the ones without 
spiders or snakes-- crawl
in the darkness where
the stone itself is too
alive to touch-- i told
you last week i wanted to run
away to the space behind my 
knees where the hair grows scraggly
& the tendons of my legs
make a space for me to hide myself--
i turn off the lights--
we are people of so many little
spaces-- bend down to sit with me--
i don't know where my 
blood is traveling anymore--
our lost rivers speak like
tongues through the caverns teeth--
i want to follow them-- let
the walls take me in--
make me into a stalagmite-- an obelisk
jutting out from the gums--
come back here & drop wet leaves
on me like bouquets-- 
i came here to tell you that
i love you like the space
behind my knees--
that there are rooms inside
me that you have to crawl to
on all fours-- open only in a drought
when they're not so flooded with
misplaced blood-- i'm still trying to
figure out where it comes
from & where it goes--
in the caves they told us they tried
to trace the origins of the 
lost river by filling it with
ping pong balls & i imagine 
maybe you could feed me marbles &
see if they end up under your tongue--
i want to know where it goes--
where all this blood could be going--
most nights i feel like i'm sleeping
under my mother's metal lids again--
the ones she used to keep my food warm 
while i decided if i was allowed to 
eat or not--
i wanted to wriggle beneath metal
hem & live in the warm & damp--
leave me here in this skull 
but remember i loved you big
enough to fill every empty space
ever filled by a river
still searching for a home--
you caused floods you were so full
of bells & every
time i try to follow the river
it gets me lost behind my knees--
if i leave the sun will seem wider
& i will seem smaller again
but inside the caverns of my 
own head i can turn on the lights 
& keep myself company--
we take tours down here occasionally
-- we have a chapel
& people used to get married in front
of the biggest wall of calcite--
now it's quiet & only the algae 
hums hungry when the lights go
out-- you would like it here-- behind
my knees
swallow ping pong balls with me--
lets get lost in our veins--
let's reach down as stalactites--
make chandeliers of our teeth & 
turn off the lights to
fill this cave with the sound
of our teeth growing again--
listen for the ghosts of faint bells 
& the clamor of a metal lid being lifted--
i am the girl beneath it who filled their skull
with cavern tours & 
lost rivers dyed red--

trilobite lover

this is me crawling back home--
my Cambrian 
blood all coated in diamonds--
i dripped with water & prehistoric
ankles-- the sun 
skidded of the glint on
our backs--
we held onto a notion of
a memory-- we were keeping as 
a secret from all
the living creatures who
believed they would someday live
as humans-- that hope for bone &
warm knees & feet
i am taking off my skeleton yet again
for you-- this is a reminder
you were loved 300 million
years before you left foot prints
on that beach in virginia
where we mistook jelly fish for
trash bags on the shore--
we ate apples & buried the cores 
in a prayer for doomed trees to 
make roots as an act of protest--
i peel off my body as careful as 
the lid of a mason jar-- a thumb 
print in the wrinkles of a beach-- 
we're older now, you know?
you kiss my wrists & i scurry frantic 
into stillness-- you lover
was a trilobite-- eternal & 
ancient & coursing with blue blood
like the horseshoe crabs--
my eyes were wedding rings
i used to look myself
into the sun as you came into focus--
trilobites have telescopes-- 
kaleidoscope vision & in front of me
you become nothing more
than a long glace from the sun--
you contort in the refraction
of light-- you ask me why i keep
my eyes so full of crystal-- so
full of sun-- so full
of thumb prints & i can't hear you
over the loud rays of sun--
on the beach we loved like
arthropods-- came home to red flesh--
boiling & stinging as we 
made love like thumb prints on
a couch-- i lost my wedding ring
eyes in between the seat cushions or
did i bury them with the rest of
my left over skeleton?
either way i got rid of them so
there would be no more promises for
us to make--
i would crawl back again into
the quiet hum of the Cambrian
moon-- a patient mother 
waiting for creatures on
earth to finally learn how to 
sing-- she plays the crystals of
my eyes like a harp--
she asks where my boyfriend is--
the one i loved as a human--
i tell her i am here as a trilobite--
here to make memories & grow
eyes of crystal-- that i'm not
here to dig for love
in seat cushions-- 
i rub aloe on my red skin--
she pulls the waves
in & out like a sigh or a
promise or a wedding bell 

a backstroke through my mother's closet

i had to be patient--
wait until my parents had cleared 
the house on a summer thursday morning--
maybe it was fresh & june-- when
everything still seemed like
it was in the process of growing--
front lawn grass unruly as
my thickets of scraggly 
leg hairs & peach stubble came to
haunt my upper lip just like my mother--
i stand at the threshold of her closet--
wild & alone & i start by
swimming in one of her stretchy-- brightly
colored dresses-- the ones she wears
to the newsroom-- i flap my arms like
a lopsided duck & try to pull the 
garment to fit me--
next i let her heels make row boats
of my small feet--
shuffle back & forth at the foot
of her unmade bed-- a child's cat walk--
i find her make up bag & draw hearts
on the backs of my hands in lipstick
before rubbing a patch of my skin
with concealer-- i borrow the face
of one of her dolls waiting in their
boxes in the attic--
i check to see if anyone is watching before
i open the top drawer of her 
dresser-- the one with underwear & bras--
she mostly has boring ones-- grey & nude &
white & black with drooping waste bands--
i hold them up to my waist
to see how close i might be to becoming my
mother-- i swim in her outline-- turn to 
her full length mirror & try to fill it
with my small thick body--
my favorite item of her clothing was 
the lacey bras & another afternoon
i would ask her why people wore
such pretty things as underwear if
only they were going to see it--
she told me that it makes people
feel beautiful on the inside-- i pick
up a red lace one & dangle it from one
strap because it's too big
for me to pretend to wear-- years later
my mother would throw out any frilly underwear i got--
stuff my thongs in the trash can in laundry
room hoping i would think the washing machine
swallowed them-- it takes time to 
try to stop swimming in the mirrors of 
other people-- wipe the lip stick hearts
from the backs of your hands-- 
how many hours did i swim-- back stroke
in brown heels--
in 6th grade kids find a million
reasons to open up each other
like tasty cakes wrappers-- they used
to say i was the girl who's mom had
a beard & that i was going eat myself
until i filled the brims of every floor length
mirror--
nothing has ever hurt more
than hearing other kids make fun
of a body you swam in-- i came up
from air in my parent's empty bed room--
i wondered if i would grow a full beard 
& if when i shaved they would all 
still know--
i felt so breakable as i laid looking
up at my mother's mauve ceiling--
one brown heel & floating on the
flower print tunic 
dripping from my body--

for the funeral planners

this poem is for the funeral 
planners like us--
the ones who plant hydrangea bruises--
the ones who write suicide 
notes in the morning
fog of car windows-- wipe
them away with our sleeves--
keep them for ourselves like
smeared lip-stick mouths on
the backs of our hands--
this is for the ones of us 
who let their turtles
run away wearing backpacks bulging with
 goodbyes
--this is for the people 
who watch snakes
slip into their cellars--
mouths full of yellow apple &
apology--
this is for the ones of
us who write our own elegies
other people will deliver--
the ones of us 
who imagine 
our mother's final words-- 
as empty as the frantic space 
in between the spokes of bike
tires-- this is for the funeral 
planners because we plan
other things too--
we plan lemon cupcakes
& walks on the bowed
heads of rocks
in the stream behind our house
-- we plan 
country callous bare feet roads-- 
we plan midnight bowls of 
fruit loops & we plan 
bouquets full of wildflowers
to leave on the kitchen table
for when our mothers come home
from work--
we plan edamame plants roots up from
the ground & sometimes we plan 
casual nights in the coffin--
the silk sides cradling us
gentle like a purple blown glass
vase-- i'm in the constant
process of finding
flowers to fill myself with
other than hydrangeas--
there's too many bruises to
fit inside my mouth--
swallow petals of blue & bone--
sometimes when i visit my parent's
house my uncle or my father
with fill my old room with fresh cut
flowers-- daffodils & tulips
& poppies--
they use beer bottles
& diet soda cans as vases &
i laugh alone seated on the edge of
my bunk bed because i live like the
cut throats of flowers--
a radiant burst of life with no
legs-- no roots to make fists with--
it is a tired thing to plan so many
funerals & cancel them--
take the invitations out
of mailboxes & toss the hydrangeas
out your bedroom window--
scrape the elegies away
from the inside of your forearms--
we plan mornings & breakfasts 
of soupy oatmeal & we plan 
tired golden delicious
apples-- 
we plan matching socks 
& our favorite pair of underwear with
the dinosaurs on it--
this poem is for the people
who are strong enough to
unplan funerals-- we live
briefly from vase to vase
& sometimes get our necks
caught in diet soda cans-- 
bloom brief with me

egg baby lullaby 

when we were in 6th grade 
we learned the important things
in home ec class--
sitting at the wobbly front tables
everyone's grandmother
taught us how to sew a straight
line of stitching up the 
side of our draw string bags--
the boys on either side of me
laughed & found the pulsation of
the needle to be somehow sexual--
because boys will always find a way
to make a rape joke-- especially
if they feel any ounce of their 
masculinity is in question--
they held up their finished
bags & dubbed each other
fabulously "faggety"-- wrapping
the draw strings around their heads
while our grandmother-teacher buried
her green-rim glasses in 
a martha steward magazine-- a special
on the best preparation methods for eggs--
i pushed the peddle slow so
that the needle plunged into
the fabric-- measured & deliberate--
i fumbled with my thimble
shields & the machine hummed
a sort of lullaby to me--
it sung that if i
was quiet enough i would wake
up to find myself in a house exactly
like the make-shift kitchens
in the classroom-- white
stoves & what tables & white counters
& white ovens--
there would be a newspaper
bearing husband there waiting for
his morning sausage, eggs, &
hot coco (from the microwave)--
i would wear thimbles so nothing
would have to be real--
rub the pan with butter before
climbing inside--
on the table in a bassinet 
would sit my egg baby--
we were all the parents of hollowed
out chicken eggs-- drew features on
their smooth white faces 
so that they would smile at
us when we tried to forget them--
some schools use sacks of
flour or baby dolls but
our egg children reminded us
how fragile we all are &
how likely our real children would
soon be swallowed by a swell
of october wind--
i found myself getting
lighter & lighter with my child
on the kitchen table in a crib
made from an old easter basket 
stuffed with blankets & cotton
balls-- from the bottom of
the pan next to the links
of turkey sausage i looked 
up at a neon heaven & that was 
when i first heard her cry--
throat choked in yolk--
this is what we will learn to become
& my husband will page through
a newspaper & pretend i'm not
laying in the bottom of a black
metal pan browning in butter 
& pretend the egg baby isn't 
crying next to him on the kitchen 
table--
i'll eventually get up to
serve him breakfast & he'll throw
the sausage on a potato roll & 
kiss smack us goodbye--
pull a drawstring bag over
his he & laugh at how faggety 
kitchens make him feel & once
he has left i will sit back down at the
sewing machine-- begin again from
buzz-hum lullaby until the 
egg baby sleeps again--
i will have left the stove
on & my sausage will be charred
next to where i rested in the bottom
of the pan--
we learned the important things
in home ec class-- like all the words
boys would conjure to treat us
like counter tops & the handles of
pans while they put their
draw string bags on their heads
& our grandmother will again turn
the pages of her martha steward magazine to
a recipe for deviled eggs &
each of us girls in our
little kitchen play pens will 
place our egg babies in the palm of
our hands & resist every urge we have
to squeeze them until they break--