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-- 

 

hot metal ladders into the
bee-sting sun

i am the ghost body 
swaying
in the big-kid swings-- 
we all thought we could kick
above the trees &
we were all scared of loosing
control of flight & flipping
over the metal bar at the top--
all of our fathers pushed us
higher & higher & higher
& we closed our eyes & for a moment
were hot & deliciously angry 
enough to be the sun--
they have been taking apart
the park i grew up in bone
by bone-- & with each vertebrae
of monkey bars pulled loose we're
losing chances to crawl
back up to the sun--
i was 6 the first time
i climbed all the way up the
rotini metal slide-- cork
screwed into the jugular of
the fever sky
& i felt trapped-- hot
throat to slide down on or
the metal stairs the whined
like the faces of snare drums
when you walked on them--
drummer girl made a rhythm
to rock each cluster of metal bone--
the merry-go-round &
the straight-teeth jungle-gyms--
above me the sky was angry 
like the fresh wound of a bee
sting on my stomach & i 
felt like i could just stay there--
yank monkey bars from the clouds
& sway on rungs over
the entire town--
take a rest on the roof-top 
of the house where we used to live
on main street-- the one
with the little balcony where
my father taught me how to 
count the lightning's distance after
if roars--
they taking apart this play ground
bone
by stubborn bone & when i return
the metal slide is nothing but
an obelisk & the trees mourn the
roller-skating rink
where all the stray cats in the town
used to live beneath & the
park still wears the scattered tattoos
of all its lovers on back wall of
the band shell & in each cement bathroom
stall-- on a tree near the baseball field
my brother & i carved our
initials with a dull pencil into a wooden
poll holding up the wires feeding the stadium
lights-- we wanted to be part of this
place-- wanted to remember what it
was like to be able to be tall
enough from the top of the slide
to dangle so precariously above
town-- our father called down from the
foot of the slide & told us we could do
it-- we could let loose our bodies
& be swallowed--
the sun was angry & alone that night
that the park lost most of its bones
& now when i return i mourn
her body with the trees & the ghosts
of all the brothers & sisters
& fathers & babysitters & bathroom stall
lovers & band shell children attempting
to last forever--
write me a song for snare drum face--
i'll hum it when i climb to sit
on the bar above
where the ghost children sit
in big-kid swings-- push me higher
push me higher
i want to be part of the sun--
i want to slide down
your throat like a bee sting--

 

DVD player phone call

Oh no really—

Yeah—ya—

I can try—

Yes—now hold on—

There’s a green button

What’s that

Okay

A green button

Go back and hit where the tray came

Out

Hit the black box

The black box

Upper left hand corner

Tell me when the tray comes out

…

…

Okay

Good

Push the tray back in

Hit the green button

Up on the right hand side

Ya see it?

Hit that hit that-

No

Okay but hit that

Got it?

Okay—

No—not that remote—

Okay okay

Honey

No

Okay

Bye bye dear

yes i’ll call then

the thief of left socks 
  
if you're wondering where all
the left socks go
i'm here to confess anonymously
that all these years it has been
me all along--
it wasn't an easy choice of
profession but someone
has to do it--
you see i learned mischief
in my father's rocking-chair
stories & i found that i could
live everywhere & no where 
all at once--
i open old yellow phone books
collecting mildew on 
front porches & pilfer 
addresses-- ball them up 
tight & swallow them like wads 
of pink chewing gum--
these places to become my homes--
i follow my instinct of place to
i sleep beneath the restlessness
of another dryer--
why the left one? you ask
because it's the first question
most people ask if they have
a chance to meet me--
i don't have a real reason but
i think that absurdity is
the only & best reason for
action-- on nights when i'm feeling
alone i will take out my back pack
full of all your left socks &
i'll lay them all out under a 
belly of moon--
there is, of course, the polka-dot
tube sock from michigan &
the one with the schnauzers
from illanois &
i line them up in tandem
like waltz partners--
my home state of pennsylvania 
has delivered me many 
white & black fruit of the loom 
with the heel chewed through
from standing or from 
walking up & down a gravel road--
i like to put them on &
feel my own heels 
naked in heavy august air--
summer has the best months 
for sock theft-- people
are more careless-- 
i swipe addresses
off mailboxes while everyone's too
busy finding orion's belt every night
because it reminds them that
there's a waist big enough to
lock them into a night sky--
you wouldn't notice me 
if you passed by me in the 
local library--
i'm always sitting by
the pile of atlases with a 
puffy back pack brimming 
with left socks tucked nicely away
so as to not give away my identity--
i page through book after book
of oceans-- of rivers i try to 
untangle from the pages
& stuff into my pockets--
it's most thrilling to collect
all the places you'll never go to
just like i collect the lives i'll 
never get to live in every left
sock i take from the 
hearth of a dryer--
it's never been out of malice--
i never meant for you to feel uneven
or uncertain but this
is what it take for me to feel human
again-- if you want to join
me i'm spending the night
beneath your dryer in the clamor 
of the machine-- waiting for the right moment
to take just one for the collection--
if you want to trade i've been
looking to part with this toe sock
from new york--
its reminds me too much of sleep overs--
& too much of addresses that were nearly 
too heavy to swallow--
as for me i go barefoot--
i got to feel 
the dew-softened soil beneath my
toes-- dig my whole feet into
the sandboxes & the ocean bites
each of my toes one at a time--
someone else like me took my left socks a
long time ago--
i hope i meet them someday--
maybe i will crawl under the dryer
to find them there too or we will reach 
for the same atlas of middle eatern
europe & blush & pretend not
to know what each other is doing there--
next time you lose a left sock
don't think of me--
this is our secret-- i promise to
keep it safe-- to wear it in honor
of it's foot--
to look at it only by the lonely
light of a moon when i lay them all
out to dance along & together
& so wistful in their emptiness
 

 

the evacuation plan

when i was in middle
school & trying to find
a way to evacuate
my own body i would 
walk around the block 
past the soy bean fields--
once in awhile
no cars would pass by & 
no one would make rustling 
in their backyards or
populate their porches with
knees & dirt-road feet
so i could pretend it was only
me here-- that everyone else
had found somewhere else to go--
i guess i just wanted to
find a way to tell you
that if everyone escapes
their bodies i want
you to leave me behind--
i want to be the last one &
i would start by just
walking down the back road again
& listening to the naked necks
of all the old trees whose 
skeletons rotted from the inside
out-- 
i feel myself growing hallow
without voices to fill 
the empty corridors up to my 
wrists-- i husk
myself-- scoop out
enough to be used as wind chime
for only me to hear--
i'd pretend the dotted
yellow lines in the middle of
the road were a balance beam &
i would hide all the places i
never thought i would fit into--
crawl inside the fridge & lay face
up on the second shelf next to 
a pint of blue berries
that my mother would have forgotten
about before the evacuation--
inside everything would be bright &
cold.
i'd wonder what it was
like for everyone 
to leave their bodies behind & 
where everyone had gone without me--
i would wish i'd kept you with me--
just you.
together we could repopulate the
earth with the sound of our
bones turning into wind chimes--
fall slowly like the trees who
gave up their bones-- we'd make
the kind of an unpredictable 
song spurred on by emptying 
yourself out the windows--
each sill filling up with voice--
the voice of everyone holding their
breath & waiting for me to give
up my freckles like a handful 
of sunflower seeds--
in the back yard i would listen
to the ghosts of the pumpkins we tried
to grow that one year--
they would make jokes about how
strange a relationship i have with 
other humans--
a limbo desire to be totally
& utterly alone while also engulfed
in a mouth full of every word ever spoken
into a poem--
i want to know if i'd still write poetry 
if it was only me to haunt this body--
just me here walking ghosts back
into the soy bean field--
i think i could keep writing even
if i forgot what all the words
we'd ever shared had meant-- written
in a language of empty femur &
vacant porch my poetry would
fall heavy out the windows
of the house & shatter in the driveway
like all the promises we 
made to sleep quickly & alone--
this is the evacuation plan--
stay with me-- we can unlearn what
all the words mean & i can teach
you how to depart from a body 
& how to trick the soy beans
into laughing like bells--
we'll bring dirt-road feet back
to the porch & wait
from everyone to return--
coming back to your body is like 
slipping down from the second shelf
in the fridge-- a carton of
blueberries in hand--

 

it's not the kind of thing we talked about

--my mother said when i asked
her if they had picked out
any other names for me other
than 'sarah'
i guess i had imagined them
with at least a sort of
list-- crossing off ideas
until they circled my name--
maybe it took them hours--
i thought-- passing around
my tulip face into a word--
i asked what i would have been
called if i was born male & 
they said my 'william'
which would become my 
younger brother's name-- 
we were each
other before we shared bath tub
water--
what i didn't ask was 
what they did talk about
if they didn't talk about my
name--
i've tried to figure it out
from old photographs 
of them holding me-- a tangle
of clothe & soft skin--
in the ones from my baptism 
my mother clutches me like
a loaf of French bread--
i know you never expect someone &
maybe they were smarter for
not trying to expect me--
they certainly didn't hope for
an anorexic poet who sits in 
windowsills some nights feeling
heavier than a star but
still somehow in flight--
i trace rings around my body--
the orbital paths of invisible moons--
i like to think that maybe 
my parents thought
about what would happen if they
planted me in the backyard
behind the house on franklin street--
maybe my mother bet i would grown
into a fig tree like the ones 
that had grown from 
her grandmother's veins &
my father would bet i would become
a pear tree--
like the fickle one behind my great
aunt's house-- growing
green pears on a whim
& letting her balled fists rot
into the lawn--
maybe they would
argue over a plot of top
soil & resolve not to plant
me for fear i would be neither a
fig tree or an apple tree
or a pink balloon like the
ones tied around the mailbox 
to walk about baby girl--
i don't want to ask more question--
i prefer my answers from 
pictures where i am small
& neither myself or someone else--
maybe even then i knew i had poems--
but not enough words to put
them into air--
maybe i tried & only clumsily 
crumpled napkins with my slimy 
baby-hands--
when i cried i wonder if they
talked about how quiet i would
be if they had let me become
a fig tree or a pear tree--
i wonder if they talked about
sitting me in a window sill or
worrying about me drawing
the moon closer to the windows
when i was asleep in the crib
with the tall wooden bars--
i have asked my brother if he ever
thought much about his name--
he shrugged & said 
it was just a name & i joked
that it would have been mine
if he weren't always late--
he tells me i can have it & 
i laugh because i already have
enough names & still too many 
to choose from--
my parents planted letter 
in my mouth-- held me close
as a loaf of french bread & 
took down the pink balloons 
tied to the mailbox the next morning
when i was soft as a rotting
pear fist & free
of original sin--

 

anonymous girl & re-gifting the sky 

by the time you pull the 
wrapping paper off the
sky i will
already be someone else--
you will catch the gift tag
when it falls
down from a cloud--
you might mistake it for
a gum wrapper--
it's from
the anonymous girl who
poured the steam off a tea
kettle to make the night
blush grey--
i kept the stars hidden
so you 
would have a reason to 
take me back.
in the city i don't have
to be anyone-- i can
order a coffee from another
notch in the shin of
a sleeping stone body
& pretend like i have always
stopped there-- 
i can put
more money than i should in
the tip jar as an offering 
to the buildings to ask
them to keep sleeping-- we
need a few more thousand years 
to use their skeletons as a city--
i sit at the counter & 
look out the window like
all people who write poetry do.
i'm stuck because
in my mouth everything rhymes 
with your name--
when you go to bed in june
i'll re-wrap the sky for you--
this time with red & green christmas
print paper & when you open
it the sky will turn
to snow around us--
there will be no falling here--
only waiting for the ground 
to stop snowing too--
you still won't know me
& i'll still drop my names
in pennies on the sidewalk
for other people to find--
oh what are we but anonymous poetry 
on the backs of our own hands--
unwrap the sun i left for you--
peel off the rind-- each
smile in a little juicy clementine 
lobe-- everything good
you have to unwrap--
to you we are still anonymous
& i'll probably recognize 
your face only from where
i sit in the coffee shop
i'm pretending i stop at everyday--
i go here to write love
poems for people i'll never meet--
someone has to be no one today--
it's a terribly brave
things to wrap up the stars
without knowing who
might unwrap it &
who might find my name
at the end of a poem they're
accidentally writing late 
at night or in the morning
when the grey june sky turned 
into snow.