times i lied about my age

1.
of course i told you i was 16--
as unlikely as a maple tree leaf
crumpled into a bundle of unspent nerves
-- drop me into the stream and name
the boat's voyage after my fall--
she was a peach pit--
sailed the body of an island
of diet coke cans--
i counted my ribs as
slim Jim wrappers-- 
you knew i was 14
but it feels better to be 
as improbable as 16 and
fall to the ground
in the carousel of a whirligig--

2.
14 women are enough to teach
us to dress up--
us down-- dress out
this skin layaway--
creep into
the maids costume on the coat hanger--
sacrifice the color of your lips--
hang as triangles--
as pyramids--

3. 
wake up from the sarcophagus
to announce 4,000 years
of being 19-- queen of melting
planets and a river carrying
shipwrecks lit
by birthday candles--

4.
call me the sun God
and strip me of the number 
of times i crawl on my
belly around the earth--
i'm 12-- as old 
as the skeleton of the bunk bed

5.
forget the days
you've measured yourself in
tablespoons of stream--
i want to build
an age out of candles lit
under my bunk bed--

6.
don't catch the sheets on
fire again--

7.
my father eats birthday cake for
breakfast-- cream cheese icing
on a butter
knife and fist of double chocolate 
devil's food cake--

8.
i'm as old as the devil
but younger than 
his breakfast--

9.
laugh when i tell you i'm
16 from the bottom bunk of a bunk
bed in your parent's house--
we hear pots boiling dinner

10.
found the stars in glow paint--
broke Oreo like supernova
like Jesus 
like adoration
like the incense of a birthday candle

11.
do i still smell like 
the birthday cake in the over--
a girl with orchid ears
burning sheets on the bottom bunk--

12.
i told you i was a sun god

13.
i'm 16 so it's time to
rupture the orbit of
another gumball-- click-teeth
kiss me--

14.
days to build an arch out
of maple leafs--
climb the tree with me
and we'll peel off the glow 
in the dark stickers 
in between the stars

15.
the blue gumballs were scarabs

16.
i am only 10 and brave
enough to walk on shallow water
and still fear sharks

17.
i am only 5 and
i eat grilled cheese because it
reminds me of the pyramids
i crawled out of--

18.
i covered the surface of
a moon with birthday candles
and called it a sun

19.
click teeth to make a spark--
light a wick--
tell me how old
are you now
are you now
are you now
are you now
that the pyramids are shrinking
and the sun a candle

20.
blow out the candles
beneath the bunk bed--
i'll kiss you-- and 
forgot how many times 
i walked belt loops
of the earth because you
make me feel like Ra
like rapture
like devil's food--
like removing the lid
of a sarcophagus--
crawling on my knees 
onto the back of a maple leaf--
cross the river Styx with me--
we'll teach the devil
how to break an Oreo
and kiss loud enough to light the sun.   

A good poem should be written like a scar.

when i write i want your skin rise like 
the contours of a topographic map-- 
see the chasms of the Atlantic in my forearms
open and open again-- this is where
we buried the voyage of a grandmother
and an anchor scraped into the silt--
dig me into a row of soy beans-- rake fingers
in mud and clay-- this is where we plant 
our punctuation in the hopes of growing 
a picture of ourselves in a bathroom mirror--
plow a prophecy in a smudge of mist--
run your fingers over the burns on my 
arms where the stars fell and singed me
from the head of a match stick--
light the big dipper bright enough
to stir the alphabet soup of this couplet--
does your blood taste like tomato soup like mine?
i want my poems to make you want to kiss
everyone you forgot you loved--
run a thumb over their scars and smooth
them into the dotted lines of the road
watch scabs turn into pillow cases
to rest a poem on--
they tell me the slip of an X-acto knife 
across the back of my hand made me a woman--
and i'm explaining it made me a star--
was i the apple you meant to cut into quarters?
or are you here to tell me that a scar is only
a collection of words we use to remember skin--
are there enough scars to write about something
other than apple seeds?
i want to know what you plant in
the backyard when the soil is soft enough toeat--
i curled my stomach into a fist tight enough
to become a stanza-- turned my neck again 
as the stem as the volta-- look back
at me and remember something i said
to make your arms feel again like Appalachia--
a rocky ridge to crumple your past
into stones and toss over the ledge
of a mountain-- 
you told me you eat my 
poems with a fork and an X-acto knife-- 
i said 
eat through the plate
the table and gnaw 
scars into the kitchen floor.

walk me home in the fog

i pressed my bare feet
to the surface of a blushing window--
the back seat of my mother's 
blue station wagon-- shy in another
cloud escaped from above the foreheads
of telephone polls--
we broke the bags of tea leaves
like rhapsody-- like the blizzard 
that elected to fall as rain--
Winter found herself too heavy to
pretend to be another crystal--
too heavy to pretend she didn't want
to kiss you through a milky window--
there wasn't enough ash from the coal
to pinch into diamonds-- 
so we forgot about the snow
--tilled the field with 
an ice cream scoop and freckles
of loose tea-- 
we had remembered January as the pale
tip of a creamer-- but January 
has the type of memory 
only left by foot prints in the mud--
the grass soaking into a bubbling
ladle of soil-- we re-learned
how to walk on water-- 
when we were little 
and charmed star fish on a beach
it had been so easy--
but now if i want to feel myself
vanishing i have to think
of you and tying a piece of
yarn to m collar to walk to
the belly of a mug--
have i told you i was to 
to sleep with you like chamomile?-- 
i've wanted to be held the
way you hold a palm of chai--
warm as the mud bubbling
into a cauldron of soup--
share a spoon-ful on the porch 
steps with me and watch the clouds
tip-toe down from telephone wires--
scatter tea leaves like wedding rice--
we're watching the fog fall 
irrevocably in love with 
breath entering the cold--
with steam from a tangled 
braid of pasta-- and the broken
body of a tea bag--
we used the leaves to 
plant strawberries
in the yard-- swam
to the surface of the mud--
harvest with ice cream scoops--
when i say i'm falling for you
i mean i'm falling for you
like clouds who get lost 
and find themselves
ringing door bells on Main Street--
like the mute of a street light
that makes diamond of the rain--
i was too heavy to be a blizzard
so i fell as rain so that we could
grow strawberries
in the winter-- make jam the
soup-spoons and our foot prints--
i don't mind being remembered in a stamp
of mud--   
i want to kiss you across a clouded
window of a backseat
where i've watched the 
sky
crawl back into bed--
shhhh--
quiet like chamomile--
turn off the street lights
so the rain can sleep
and repeat the vows
exchanged by the clouds 
and the air. 
 

Body of relics, antique burials,
and sleeping in the catacombs of the pantry

When I die I want you to take
apart my body like a saint--
No-- not like Saint Clare 
I know my body is already corruptible--
I've already seen my finger nails 
drop like marigold fire--
this is me dying like the tongue
of the flame I am-- 
I have already begun to decompose--
felt my skin yellowing
like newspapers wrapped
around chipped tea-cups--
in the field of antiques 
we peruse to find a lover--
I want to leave myself in pieces
to make you want to put me back together--
collect me in your pantries
and in the corners of your
book shelves and tell your children
about how 
I died and fell into thousands of fragments--
I was never a whole body
so don't bury me like that--
blow my ashes in the face of King--
I'm sleeping in the catacombs of the pantry--
behind the Bisquick and 
the solid bag of brown sugar boulders
we'll break into muffin tonight--
the rocky cliffs of Main where
the ocean's knuckles bleed on the rocks--
I sleep in a 1/4 measuring cup
and wonder if you'll consider
turning my ashes into brownies
or pepper spray--
blind a back alley with my remnants--
these are the catacombs of a baker--
I mistake the dried chicken noodles 
for my own hair-- my own
cubes of white meat--
All the while Saint Clair
is still waiting to wake up
again so she can cut her hair
to fill mason jars-- she sleeps
in a terrarium-- body untouched
and frozen in cubes of white meat--
I saw her on the picnic blanket
at the antique market and wondered
who would have enough money to buy
a whole body--
I wondered if they would
take her apart in pieces--
turn her into a wax
sculpture to put a wick between her fingers--
light these Saint bodies into 
candles--
burst marigold and 
remember the locks of my
bleach-scorched hair--
Don't feel bad about saving my
bones for soup--
I don't want to be preserved 
I want to be part of something
again-- spit me into the soil--
we're not cannibals-- we're lovers
and to love something you
need to take it apart into pieces--
make it into bracelets and 
brownies
and lay my body to rest 
in the pantry behind the Bisquick
where everything is quiet
as the roots of a marigold--
the inside of Saint Clare's
terrarium--
she wanted to be fire like
the rest of us--
So when I die I hope you will
remember me when you
see my locks of hair 
on blankets at a fleet market--
don't spend too much money on
my relics-- they're barely antique--
put my finger nails on your mantel 
and wait for them to become
candles--
don't believe them when
they tell you 
any of us were incorruptible--
I was decayed before my skin
wrapped a chipped tea cup--
I was a puff of ash 
before I knew how to move my femurs--
a tentacle of incense--
to remind you that there
is a God who burns our
hair like wicks--
She is lips puckered in marigold--
she has collected the chips
fallen from tea cups--
she keeps
our pieces her her book shelf--
behind a cliff made
of a brown sugar--
sits and counts our hairs
like waves. 

Spend some silence on me--
I can be bought with door knobs
and keys bent into promise rings.

have i told you about how i
am enamored of the possibility 
of you and me in a room?
lock the front door behind you--
has no one warned you yet about winter?
if you don't lock your doors
death can find us as unaware as 
scrambled eggs--
he spoons mashed potatoes 
from a cloud-- boils the gravy
in the mud--
winter is looking for a cold
place to hold himself--
he finds no more use
for blankets or layers of filo dough--
it is alright to feel bad for him--
he mistakes porches for
confessionals-- attempts to brew holy water
in milk and lavender from the gutters--
here inside a room
we are a possibility larger
than a spoon of winter or
the patience of a scrambled egg--
draw the floor plans for the
sky with me-- i have a blue crayon and
a diner place mat-- 
we'll order a black and white
milkshake from the windowsill--
our waitress is a cardinal because
red is too slippery a color
to be grasped by death or winter 
or a ploom of whipped cream--
maraschino cherries
we're meant for sharing--
they were meant for 
sacrifice-- 
we'll ask for two--
bleed bright in a crown of cream--
oh my queen you turn the door keys
into rings--
promise me you remember what a closed
door is like--
what it's like to fill a room 
with someone else--
bless me Winter for i have sinned--
i re-imagined the sky without
a cloud of a sun to take us
away from the blue--
the sea became a cloud because
of me-- became a 
spoon to float on--
promise me you bent the keys 
for us and not just me--
promise me you drew the 
sun back into the sky
so we can make the blankets
into filo dough-- crack cardinal
eggs in the pan--
do you remember 
how to be born
out a window in the snow?--
become a cardinal 
and thrash scars in the white--
heal maroon as a sugar maple in 
melting September-- 
we shouldn't risk a door knob
again-- 
that's how
everything rushes out of a room--
and we just got here--
spend a little more silences on
me-- i want to be spoiled--
remember this silence in a jar--
-- the kind of quiet
i don't eat with another spoon--
the kind of silence of a cardinal--
waiting to run again from
Winter-- he's lonely without
someone to share milkshakes with
but it was never your obligation to be
a lover--
i have a pocket full of door knobs
whenever you're ready to
write another sky 
from a room where you make 
silence with someone else-- 
promise you remember what the door
were like when they were locked
and what the keys felt like 
as promise rings--
i promised September i would
let the scars on my forearms 
grow into trees after it snowed--
i promise you to give you door
knobs-- and milkshakes--
bless me winter for i have sinned
to listen to the confessions 
of a season from the porch--
i can be a confessional--
a cardinal-- a cherry--
crawl out the windows with me so
we can keep the key we've turned
into rings-- 
i like the sky we made--
i'll put back the sun
if you help me fish the clouds
from the blue that once was a sea. 

They forced me to sing for the president
so i brought a three-string ukulele and
a pocket of thumb tacks

in first grade they charmed us like
cobras-- 
held a flag dangled as a dead rat
and told us to jump for the dreams
we shook loose from McDonald's wrappers--
this is our Big Mac-- the greasy bed
sheets of another morning 
where i smell his sweat on my blankets
even though i've been washing them
for six years-- 
i have been swaddled in processed cheese
squares-- melted-- devoured--
that's what they want us for--
a sexy wrapper strip tease of this girl 
in oil-- breaded and chicken fries--
when i was twelve i could
sing happy birthday on the
dissonant three sings
of my ukulele-- 
ask me to sing about a fist full
of hair in the hands of another man-- 
this hair is the reigns of
his horse and carriage sex fantasy--
yes mr. president yes
i still remember what my rapist 
smelled like
yes mr. president yes
i'll call you daddy because you
have no problem fucking the 
freedom out of another daughter--
use as the horse
to get to your throne-room--
i'm told to sing in the corner
of the office-- the oval
of another male gaze--
they didn't ask me to vote-- they 
didn't take my thumbprints in ink
this is blood--
i voted against you with my blood
with my throat bruised
in lavender roots--
the men shaved my head 
like a cobra-- 
laughed how they could
teach a whore to sing between the
strings of her ukulele--
demanded 
a song and they'll get one--
i'm going to sing your words
into our truth
the truth that you can 
grab me by the pussy but you 
can't keep us silent for 
four years--
America-- i see my rapist 
gilded as a God-- i see
the racial slurs on the bathroom
walls-- 
and i'll say i'm a faggot so you 
don't say it first--
yes mr. president
i'm building a wall-- 
i'm building great wall 
longer than the one in China--
my wall holds immigrants--
my wall holds Syria-- Muslims--
my wall speaks Spanish
La pared, la pared y 
voy a cruzar el río
con ustedes
son familia 
son familia sin sangre
en sangre
my wall is sung on three
ukulele strings-- my wall 
is built with this skin
without virginity--
this wall is for the fat 
bodies-- this wall is for
the black bodies--
this wall measures the inches
of ice caps melting
into squares of processed cheese
on the hamburgers of our monarch--
for the next four years
i'm keeping a pocket full of thumb
tacks and you can take that how 
you will--
these are for fists--
for flyers--
for patches in a wall we're going
to have to build and re-build--
for pinning ourselves 
to the torso of
trees-- for hanging the carcass
of the flag above our children's heads
and telling them there's something
still left there to sing--
so yes i'll sing for you
mr. president--
i'll sing for you
with a pocket full of thumb tacks
and a ukulele with three strings--
take that how you will--

My limbs dangling in the jungle gym, 
becoming the knot of an albino python,
and jaw breakers--

jump rope with two bodies-- 
i severed-off my legs in the sand box--
stuck in the ground like 
the trees crooked finger bones--
abandoned my arms still limp 
on the monkey bars-- 
my father used to hold me up by
my waist to help me cross
each rung--
and there i discovered what it
felt like to walk on water
from a jungle gym-- 
you can't blame me for wanting to 
become a serpent--
i was never
a person likely to make 
much use of my limbs anyway--
spent too many afternoons on my
stomach from the candy shop floor 
waiting for stray root beer barrels 
and strawberry jelly candies--
unhooked my jaw in anticipation
for the consumption of 
an entire world scrubbed clean 
in the glare and flicker of linoleum-- 
elect me in lavender-- in a
body fresh as a stove top coil--
i'm only hot as your morning--
warm me under the blaring
neon sun of the ice cream parlor--
don't mind me-- i'm just waiting for 
you to misplace a gummy worm--
sweet tooth sunk deep into
my own forgotten limbs--
this licorice rope is my body--
make penance out of a hand full of
jawbreakers--
what do you know about the snake who
eats their tail?--
or about the human who bites
their arms in an attempt to 
feel remorse for some sin
they might have once committed
with sweet fangs--
how many pounds of juju bees 
did you need to lose your teeth?
when you're tired take refuge in
a fist of taffy-- pythons are easily
mistaken for the flavor banana--
i shaved off my hair 
from the side of sand box where i 
hid my legs--
there was the ancient ruins
of a sand castle but
only you and i would have known it was there--
skip rope with the long-hair
girls when they sing
apples, peaches, pears, and plums 
tell me when your birthday comes--
so i answer with an unhinged kiss
and a mouth three jaw breakers deep--
they never teach you what to do
once your mouth is full--
apples peaches pears and plums--
i'm as old as the knee caps 
tied into a spine of a tree-- 
older than a spool of taffy 
or sugar geode--
i became
a python to be able to eat jawbreakers--
gulp the long hair girls 
and their baskets of apples,
peaches,
pears,
and plums-- the apology of a bruise--
the impatient hum of an empty candy shop--
arms still dangling from 
the monkey bars--

The fine china tea cups still wrapped in newspaper,
my father's hunger vigil, and how i learned to keep
the universe from getting lonely at night.

my family never intended to use 
the good china plates-- we ask about them at Christmas
out of appreciation-- reverence even--
our table has turned into a carpet--
into a palm to hold mashed potatoes--
a forearm full of asparagus consecrated 
with a fist of Parmesan--
my father still stands vigil at
the counter to eat butterfly-wings of
ham-- honey beats us into a moon--
he watches the door like death is
still looking for him in the body
of a stray cat with patches all over
her thighs-- he drinks diet coke
there like penance-- stares at the
ham out of fear and hunger and hatred--
he doesn't want the cat to see him
eating with a fork and knife--
we keep the fine silverware in a
used box of gourmet chocolates and
spend half the year opening it the hopes
that it's been hiding one last 
peanut butter swirled truffle for us to
orbit-- 
it might be only me who glances at the
boxes of tea cups while we finish 
Christmas dinner 
i feel like i understand them somehow--
and my father still dares not chew the
hem from course skirt on the apple pie--
my mother tells him to eat but he only
glares at another cat pawing at the window--
my brothers don't think about utensils--
use two fingers like chopsticks-- navigate
a plate as cautious as the handle of a tea cup--
my father
stabs a fork in the meat-- our conquistador--
each tea cup on the shelf from the china set
is still headline-swaddled-- gold eye brows
raised at a sink full of left-sock 
dishes-- 
the tea cups judge us for washing
pizza crusts in the dish washer--
we're out of soap so we add another punch 
of shredded cheese-- our knuckles
broken into boulders of salt--
we diagnose ourselves with the polka-dots pox of
the slumped couch who is almost as tired
as my mother-- 
we are elbow people-- aluminum 
foil crowned-- gilded of a microwave
lightning bolt hurled from the bangles 
of a god who is weary of my father--
my father only sleeps on his elbows
and my mother remarks that the ham is 
getting cold and the ice cream on
the pie has turned to milk 
again-- 
for a moment he want to be a china tea cup
too-- we all do-- clean and secret like
the monotonous history of a newspaper--
i wait for them to sleep--
each melting into the
cracks of the sofa-- engulfing 
my family like a palm of mash potatoes--
our beds chew us with gums
and my father falls face-first into 
the lap of the apple pie--
we check to make sure
he's only sleeping before we go outside
to scare the stray cats off the porch--
we know they're not coming for my
father-- not yet-- but he doesn't know
that so he thinks he still has to keep 
watch-- and the dishes
fidget and try to wash themselves in the sink--
like the tea cups i'm the one who doesn't sleep here--
i shush a tea kettle and sit on the counter
beside where my father sleeps from his elbows--
someone has to keep the universe company 
when everyone else has forgotten about
the fine china-- 
it's just our little secret--
i open the window and the room turns
into a plate of stars stolen from
the boulders of salt we 
rolled like dice into mashed potatoes--
the universe sits there with me
and together we unravel the tea cups--
squint to watch them under
the glare of the moon gazing in at us like
a stray cat from the window--
have you ever seen the moon get down
on her knees? she does so only for a beautiful
tea cup or a spoon of sugar chai--
i tell the universe about our
family while i pet my father's
hair-- i tell her that we don't remember
where the dinner table went--
i tell her about the china we're drinking
from and the clamor of dishes in the
sink-- i tell her about my brothers
and their small chop stick fingers--
i laugh about the stains on my dress
and yawning of the sofa--
she thinks it's marvelous and cries
because she's lonely without
a table to approximate from a carpet--
she spends must nights alone
on a gold haloed plate quietly munching
a forest of asparagus--
she keeps herself clean for astronomers--
i pet her hair too and tell her that's what
our counter top is for-- 
so she comes back each Christmas--
helps me wash the two tea cups and put
them back-- brushes the night sky
out of the living room-- our little secret--
i wake up early to tell my father
to wipe the pie off his nose and eat--
only then is he too tired to refuse-- 

in remembrance of 
the disposable love poetry of white boys--
when was the last time you eloped with yourself?

boys love so much like a snicker doodle--
laugh your hair covered in cinnamon and sugar--
dissolve in the glass of milk-- take
a thumb full of butter over your lips
and promise you that this time they
learned LOVE in the curve of your wrists--
the way you hold spoons like balance beams 
and the nightlights you ignite by
turning a loop of Orion's belt into
a tea light-- put the batteries back
into my neck-- i'm a moon shadow-- 
melt me in the glass of milk and somehow
boys always turn into chocolate-- 
find a way to melt into freckles--

i left myself a love poem this morning
in remembrance of all the times boys
have mistaken me for sugar or for the 
twisted stem of a plum--
i wrote it on a pink sticky note-- creased
on the forehead of my old blue locker-- 

in the eighth grade when i was convinced 
i was neither the cookie nor the glass of
milk i poured love letters to myself
in measuring cups of grapes and 
cheerios-- loved this body 
a whole 1/4 cup full-- 
dream and bake me a brownie pan--
i was meant for squares-- i was a corner piece--
i was the puckered lips of a cinnamon raisin bagel--

i'm trying to learn how to run away 
without boy poems-- because boy poems 
bleed milk like the fountain 
they made of Saint Catherine's neck
how dare she write love poems with someone else's tongue--
a oven full of books-- she spun as bobbin--

i ran away to the ledge of a window to
use the glass as a mirror and count
the stars leaving chocolate in my freckles-- wrote
the constellations into poetry--
i undress here and i know you could
watch if you wanted to but this isn't
a naked picture for you to frame 
in a glass of milk-- this isn't disposable
like the love poems you birthed in sugar
and cinnamon-- this isn't a spoon
this is my balance beam-- this is a love
poem written to the girl-body 
who collects nightlights 
out of fear of the dark and being 
drown in another glass of milk before bed--

i love you and iris raisins-- locker combination
to my mouth-- full me with loose paper--
fragments 'i love you written' in the margins 
of a blue spiral bound notebook--
swallow yourself quicker than a staircase
but as patient as the 1/4 measuring cup
dumped into the bowl--
it's morning now and time to empty the
back porch of love poems
written on rye bread with margarine-- disposable
sentences of stale popcorn another boy
pulled from the puckered bagel mouth

of a dead poet-- stop writing me words
i've already said and start leaving love
on my locker door-- twist my neck until
it opens into milk--

i'm not naked by a window mirror 
to prove something to a love poem boy
who tastes like a rice crispy treat-- quick 
and measured in squares-- 

i'm not naked by a window mirror
to remind you of something you could
of had or could have wanted if you had the 
patience to pour me into a bowl instead
of dunk my lungs deep in milk

i'm not naked to become another wilted
love poem you decide to melt in chocolate--

i'm naked to the window to prove
there's still places to elope with myself--
still corners of this body left for me
to leave sticky notes-- i love the
creature who is bold enough attempt
to fit the stars in a 1/4 of a cup-- 
build nightlights--
marry the milk glass--
laugh still balanced on a spoon-- 

hitch hike with me through a blinding snow
to the front door of our house in fleetwood

in 1996 i was born in the snow storm--

i guess not actually in the snow storm--

i was born in july 

there was still
snow on the ground in july

only it was the soil's
remembered feeling of snow--

the dirt dreamed of 
sensation-- cold hipbones--
laying in bed with the onion grass
bulbs and frost each night
as the sky only broke more
bags of dove pieces--

the earth remembered 
what it was like to pull snow cones
from her throat to snore--

she remembered 
in april when we were
supposed to be throwing up
daffodils in the celebration 
of a LITTLE GIRL to keep
pink balloons from bursting
into dove pieces
--HER cupcake fists and
grip of an icicle--

we stuck out our thumbs
in scratchy red mittens--

i was born in the house
next to the railroad tracks
across the street from a 
factory who felt every shout of 
wind from the blizzard-- 
held the snow in her stomach
to pretend she was expecting a child--
only to feel herself melting
in july--
caught pink balloon in her windows--

we were picked up by a rust
fringed blue jeep--
sat on each other laps
when we said we were headed to 
fleetwood
we were picked up by 
our father
only he didn't know
he was our father

i caught the snow in the 
color of my knuckles-- the frost
still crunches in the aluminum
crinkling of jaw
when i try to kiss people--
i popped the pink balloons
so that they could fall
in more pieces of doves--
you say CONGRATULATIONS
IT'S A GIRL
but you were wrong
i was a blinding snow-- 
crawled out of the factory
to hitch hike
with my father and you
to my front door step
bleeding with dove limbs--

my father offered us
candy spear mint leaves from the glove 
box-- we had to refuse
seeing as we had yet to be born

and who were you?
i have two brothers and you
were neither of them
and both of them--
you were the pink balloons
bursting into doves--
the body the sun paints
in bed to lie with us
all summer when the windows
are open and 
the factory building has burned down
but her soil still feels alone--

and when we get to the door step
knock with your cupcake fists--
coil into a basket
so they can float you high
as pink balloons-- 

the train has my voice
through the aluminum foil
railroad tracks at night--
clatter of a screen door 

the empty passenger seat of a blue
jeep-- our father eating the last
pieces of spearmint leaf candy 
and wanting to share it
with the passengers 
no longer sitting there beside him

i was born in a blinding snow--
sleep with the hot body of July--
pop pink balloons
with my scratchy red mittens--