empty my bones from the jewelry box; my grandmother's orange gloves turned out skin in cigarette smoke when my grandmother died we picked though her wardrobe like paleontologists hunched over the filleted carcass of a triceratops-- her ribs opened wide like wings-- this is what we call a jewelry box-- the container to house what's left of you bones-- i blow the dust off a pair of orange gloves-- tight like a second skin my flesh turns into cigarette smoke-- precarious as a bar stool-- her broaches we can use to sew out ribs back into place-- we saved approximations of the moon shrunken down to the size of these pearl earrings-- what did she see in them? did she ever use her sunglasses as a mirror-- when i die i hope you are bold enough to wear me-- let me leave green halos on your fingers from the fake gold of my blue-gem rings-- pull the pin through the skin on your collar bone and feel how deep my blood used to run when my mother pinned on my green shawl with a bouquet of fake stone-- you'll find my irises in a set of a cheap earrings at the back of the box-- when you wear them you won't be able to help but to look again and again at the sky as if hoping it will be night-- when you wrap yourself in my old blue scarf i wanted you to remember the times i had wrapped you in the absence of my hair-- pull the incense out of the seams of another sweater-- how will you tell your friends that the shirt they like so much was pulled from the rib cage of a triceratops-- your parent-- your brother and you-- pass down the burden of the paleontologists-- blow the dust off your parent's bones-- wear my eyes when you're thinking of taking a walk at night-- find yourself impossibly draw to becoming another earring dangling from the bottom of the moon-- find a mirror beneath all the necklaces and orphaned pendants so you can look at yourself-- touch your face to find you're still wearing the orange gloves-- tight tight tight-- blew away like cigarette skin.
03/03
elegy for our manic pixie dream girls and other ways to put out a star-- and so when you look up at the stars at night there is a faint possibility they are all already dead-- faint mouthfuls of light spat liked wads of blue or white chewing gum at the smug face of the earth for lovers to mistake as eternal-- did you cut your hair short for me? perched on the toilet with craft scissors-- collect the hair in a ziploc bag to remember yourself-- were you a martyr for me or for plot line-- how many stains of purple lipstick on mirrors have you become? who killed the birds whose feathers you wear as earrings? i met you sitting on a stone by the edge of the steam-- you were waiting for me to pull your name out of your own throat-- wrap our necks in mardi gras beads-- dangle quiet as flecks of stars we had become-- i came back to say i'm sorry-- not for where you are but for what i let you become-- and i'll still always think of you as hopscotch in the rain-- i plucked the wings off a butterfly and wore them as eyelashes-- this is what you turned me into-- i think about the life a star and devouring their dying light with a twirled fork and a spoon-- did you escape with me because no one asked you to escape into yourself? what color would you paint your nails if you never knew me? i imagine you might have listened to cassette tapes when you were home alone-- ribbon printed with the voice of your father who dug his grave with a burnt spoon-- where are we going now? the last thing i really wanted to know from you is your real name-- no not the name you tell the boys who cut your hair and lay next to you on roof tops-- what is the name you tell your brother when you say goodnight over the vein of a telephone line? the name you wrote on the inside of your journals in elementary school when the window was as good as a doorway-- maybe that's where you learned to climb trees-- i didn't bring flowers because you wore so many in your hair that i figure a garden would grow wherever they decided to plant you-- no i brought back the pages you pulled me through-- the words this story that you gave me-- i want to give it back-- i want to know where you would go if you weren't just another sacrifice to bring a brooding boy to a back porch-- listlessly smoking a cigarette-- god i miss you-- god i miss you-- i'm sorry-- i'm sorry we lost your story for me-- tonight i'll harvest back your hair from the beams of star-- we'll make you a wig and start over.
03/02
i was waiting for your phone call in the bell of a daffodil. i'll grow roots from my toe nails here in the mulch & the soil-- soak in the eroticism of the dew-- i left the morning blushing from the night before when we lay with each other draped in ivy-- the moss grew over our legs-- made us monsters-- made us hairy-- made us invisible-- & the snails rang their shells like bells-- i woke up to find you gone again-- is this your idea of how to wake up the sun again? the necks of the daffodils snapped & shrieking in dial tone-- dial tone dial tone-- i don't know which bell to listen to because any could hold your voice-- are you humble enough to speak with the yellow lips of a flower? i am-- i am not afraid to fall in lust with the taste of petals-- you always knew i would eventually leave you for a tulip-- puckered face tight as the knots that still keep our phone lines entangled-- i don't want to the daffodils to stop ringing like wind chimes-- it remind me of august & pulling another orchid from your throat-- don't forget to water us-- puncture a hole in the angry grey of a cloud & drink with me-- drink static drink acid drink foot step of thunder in the seduction of the soil-- i ask only that someday when you come across a bed of daffodils that your remember how much you kissed me like the skin of a petal-- take a fist of dirt & root & call me from the bell of the daffodil-- crack the dial tone like a foggy morning dove egg-- i'll open up the moss-- grow monstrous with me.
03/01
ouroboros and my mother who takes off her bra on the slumped polka dot sofa in the living room and i ask you-- how can i get you to unfurl? what do you take off first when you enter a door way that holds you like the sofa in your living room back at home? i'm talking about the place where you came from-- the sofa whose springs you tortured like a trampoline-- my mother comes home and takes out adam's rib once again-- lays her bra on the coffee table-- looks up at the ceiling to inhale the smell of cinnamon-citrus perspiration in our walls-- the living room steeps like a bag of my brother's earl grey tea-- he takes of his boots-- systematic-- one lace at a time-- uncoiled bodies of the snakes-- slither over each other-- ouroboros-- the snake who eat's his shoe strings-- line-up at attention by the entrance to his room at is also a bunker-- whose bedroom isn't a bunker? only i'm not going to war with the Prussians i'm going to war with a windowsill-- i taught my body poetry from the tug of a pony-tail holder-- hair laying on my back like a shawl-- i cut off my hair so there was one less part of myself that i would have to learn to let go of when i came home-- my home is now a doorway and it no longer smells faintly of citrus and cinnamon-- there's no ribs left for adam to come and collect and so the proverb goes that my father is the one who bites his own tail in the form of his shoe laces --doesn't know how to take off his feet when he finds himself in a doorway-- my father eats stew from the kitchen counter standing in his constant vigil-- he's using his ribs to open up another door frame crack under the pressure of the foot steps down the staircase-- no this is not my doorway and i never asked for your ribs-- take yourself apart with me-- unbutton me like the turn of a doorknob-- come in come in-- let's eat out tails--
02/28
in the case of talking to your mother through an Ouija board the ceiling of my uncle's bed room is slanted-- it was supposed to just be the attic-- the attic is where we put everything we don't want to have to look at everyday-- a good place to keep boys-- a poster of a shining robot woman stares down at him and my father-- laser poised-- lightning bolts spray painted on her hips-- my father sleeps in the room next door with the windows open because it's july and their aunts are afraid of air conditioners-- the artificial arctic possession of a house-- their mother died without them knowing she was sick-- cancer is only ever a metaphor-- from under his bed my uncle pulls out the rectangular box-- sun and moon painted in the upper corners-- "Ouija," he says-- and reveals the wooden board-- collage of letters and numbers-- it reminds my father of the porch for some reason-- he's remembering himself bare foot and shirt off-- legs collecting another layer of sunburn-- his mother is under the shade perched in a white plastic chair-- notebook open-- harvesting a memory of how the sun dried out her children-- she wiped perspiration off a glass of lemonade-- flicked the cold water at him-- he jumped and squealed-- "I want to ask something to her?" "To her?" my uncle asked and picked up the board-- "how will we know we're really talking to her?" my father was already at work and they put their hands down on the disk at the center-- "I'm scared" my uncle said-- "I'm not," my father said-- "I want to know where you are," my father demanded-- fingers grazing the surface-- for a moment he contemplated moving the planchette himself-- he would make her say she loved them-- that she remembered-- that's all anyone wants to hear is that they're remembered-- instead he let the disk levitate on it's own-- "It's moving-- It's moving" my uncle whimpered-- "put it away-- put it away!" "But we haven't said goodbye or even hello" my father protested-- but my uncle flipped the board scattered-- shattering the glass looking piece-- "Look what you did!" my father snapped and a shard glass nicked his hand while he tried to get to his feet-- "I was just scared--" my uncle said-- "I was just scared she wouldn't remember--" and they both cleaned up the broken glass off the floor-- laid out again on the porch and painted painted painted sun burn.
02/27
platonic love and the escape of the 9 muses 1. the muses we're sick of being another man's inspiration-- they said the only place to pull poetry is out of the mouth of woman-- a queer body-- scar skin and the frame of windowsill-- 2. zeus nailed the windows shut-- as if a god could ever stop something like poetry-- 3. you would know how imperfect i was-- i am-- there would be nothing i had left to hide-- fill the space under my bed with lamp light-- 4. you taught me poetry there's poetry in silences-- 5. there's a certain rhyme scheme to a morning-- 6. open the windows-- crawl bare foot through the garden in the back yard of a cloud-- Calliope painted the walls of our dorm room with cinnamon Clio writes our names in the closet walls-- Euterpe laughs in the scratchy voice of a dying air conditioner-- Thalia stacks cups of pudding while Melpomene reads the bell jar from the first time and cries because she feels like she has let something go-- 7. Terpsichore taught us to dance-- but only in a page turn-- Polyhymnia made a hymnal for the entrance to our room and it sings in the voices of unwritten women-- the throat of a coffee mug-- stories carved into forearms-- i'm going to ask you to read me another poem about a Goddess-- watch Urania as she paints black nail polish on the back window to make the night sky-- 8. and it was Erato who tricked us into falling for straight boys-- she still thinks it's funny-- 9. i don't lock the door because there's nothing i feel like i need to keep out-- let's be muses no one gets to use for their inspiration-- pry the nails from the windows and sit from opposite sides of a windows sill smudged with cinnamon--
02/26
the digestion of my body from the basement. the steps to the basement make me feel small-- i hold onto the railing like the hem of my mother's purple lilac print skirt on a sunday-- we walk into the diner-- i order the same bagel with ham, egg, and cheese-- only eat half because i'm not big enough to bite my way through the empty space at the center of a bagel-- i gnaw on an end until ketchup cuts open my white dress like we all knew it would-- chew me into the house's crinkle of intestine-- hear each wall swallow air-- push fat gulps of blood through the pipes-- this is where the monster draws her blood-- fresh from the earth-- from the soil-- bubble freckles of white and green mold-- the basement wears mildew like lace-- startles the rats with the hunger that clatters each femur-- each ringing clavicle-- the assonance of your lips turned your intestines into a sonnet-- who taught the house to make her body into a percussion instrument-- like all women she has been a percussion instrument i watched my ears turn into tambourine she had to swallow on each step down-- play the cymbals left in my ribs-- there is no rhythm to being digested-- only the hollow mouth of the tympani calling louder louder louder the stairs to the basement unfurl into a sandpaper tongue-- scratch and slide onto the cement floor where her stomach is cold and viscous with the scent of spilled laundry soap and dried clothing churning, burning, yearning in the knots of her body-- can't you hear her bones? don't you listen to her body? she is trying to make a song from her blood and her bones with all these humans trapped inside-- blue wires knot her veins-- she pours herself to wash the ketchup stains out of that white dress again and again and it's never stopped bleed-- from the floor of the basement the house takes me into herself-- swallows hard like dry white Women's vitamins-- i hold onto the wall like the hem of my mother's purple lilac print skirt-- come out with a fist full of dried flowers that smell thick as laundry soap-- wrinkle my white dress like the flush of intestines-- the house is consuming me with each foot step down the basement stairs-- and I couldn't ask for anything more-- she knows we love only with the blood we steal from the soil and wash out of the scars in a white dress.
02/25
my goddess is a poet. my goddess doesn't have curves. she's fat in all the ways a magazine can't photoshop into beautiful-- you can't airbrush the wrinkles from the sides of her mouth from laughing at everyone who ever tried to pray to her-- her skin is the uneven texture of the moon. she breaks mirrors in the morning because there's no refraction of light that could contain her. Her face turned the morning doves to stone-- fell from the branches like lumps of coal or hail-- my goddess has hip bones and a blooming muffin top-- jeans pulled tight around her waist from a fist of powdered doughnut-- my goddess skips breakfast sometimes-- pulls herself free from the gullet of a coffee mug-- fucks in the back seat of her mother's mini van to watch the windows fog-- doesn't want to remember his name-- paints bruises on her thighs from times she dropped herself like an apple-- eats McIntosh with the snakes-- my goddess is in therapy-- she's anorexic bi-polar schizophrenic and most days she tastes depression in the wrapper of a pop tart-- she kisses girls and thinks they taste like peppermint lip balm-- she sleep in the roof in the summer-- my goddess took a pregnancy test in a port-a-potty and dropped the stick between her legs in relief-- she's infertile and out of sync with the moon-- my goddess never wanted to be a mother-- my goddess carves blank paper and the smooth glide of a pen-- she's a poet and when she's starved herself of everything else she can still take a fork and eat through the core of a sonnet-- swallow each syllable and chew punctuation free from every stanza-- my goddess ran out of quarters at the laundry mat-- wore her dress wet and wild to diner-- ordered coconut cream pie and had lunch with herself alone-- my goddess is not looking for a god-- she's looking for a gas station to stop and buy a bag of peach rings-- she's looking for her brother to tell him how much she wants to play cards with him-- i love a goddess who knows the waiting room-- the crinkle of the wax paper at the doctor's office-- the feeling of blood drawn from arm veins-- i love a goddess who kisses the knobs of my wrists-- breaks powdered doughnut like body--like host like heavenly mondays-- my goddess never had a name-- it was swallowed by the moon a long time ago-- but i can tell you her lips taste like peppermint and she loves loves loves to write.
02/24
another beetle to drown in the baptismal fountain me & you were drown like beetles in the baptismal fountain & no incantation to our saints could teach our feet to walk on water-- stand here waist deep with me in swim-trunks & pink baby skin-- deep fry me in consecrated oil-- this is blessing this is baby this is barbecue & original sin that still tastes like applesauce-- we're learning cannibalism here-- oh & dress me altar girl-- tied up with a white cord-- quick-- let's fill our pockets with bugs-- i'm wondering again what draws the stinkbugs & the beetles to the altar-- was it their mothers? did they get confirmed because that was just what beetles did-- took the name of another martyr who drown themselves in the fountain crying ave ave ave maria-- lived in the cabinets of the sacristy & sipped wine before it turned into blood only to learn they were one in the same-- no matter what the wine was always blood-- when i was an altar girl i washed the priests hands with a silver plate & a cruet of holy water & i watched from the altar the stinkbug take bite after bite of God-- bread blessed into blood into water poured back into a fountain-- the priest paused to look at the insect-- flicked it's small body from the altar-- mandibles fat with flesh-- the same day when i got the host i was startled & dropped it-- i could only think of the gnashing of the mandibles-- all the bodies of the beetles floating & piling up in the fountain at the back of the church-- PICK IT UP the Eucharistic minister said PICK IT UP only i thought he meant the stink bug-- dead body stiff on the steps to the altar-- drown me in the baptismal fountain with the other beetles.
02/23
stale fork of chicken fried rice, rotini staircase, and mornings i wake up in a beach house. sometimes i wake up at one of the houses we stayed at on the beach-- haunt a living room in salt water steeped-- the breath of the gulls that blew the morning into mist-- this is how we become ghosts in the matrix of a memory-- i walk in the same rotini staircase to the room that watches the lighthouse over the channel-- count the whirls of the light-- hang your picture on the walls of the house so that next family knows you're still haunting-- forge with me over leftover chinese food-- we'll eat the cold sticky dry chicken fried rice and reminisce about the cold crusts of pizza-- my father comes home with sarcophagus of doughnuts-- wipe jelly on the walls like blood-- scare the renters away and claim the beach house as our own-- open the windows and let in the broth off the bay-- this about pinning a taste to the feeling of a morning-- this is about the incense of toasted bagel and bare feet-- this is about how you consecrate a house's walls with your own memory-- ordain each wall with jelly and Boston cream-- raise me rotini back up the staircase to the loft-- toss poker chips on the floor as payment-- yes there's other ghosts here and on the horizon the statue of a viking walks-- boiling the water in channel pour mist mist mist in our windows until the staircase itself begins to turn al dente-- languid in the morning--my father stacks doughnuts like prayer beads-- i watch the sun rise in fried egg-- dried and refrigerator bitten from a fork of stale chicken fried rice.
