The autopsy her back yard body:
Garden shovels that are also pairing knives
and the temptation of butter sculptures

i watched when you called her Mud-- dug
fat in hand fulls of muffing-crumb soil--
toasted almonds from the oven sheets--
constructed her chin in toiling
bags of butter-- pressed with a fork
into dark brown sugar--
you made out back yard into a blue mixing bowl--
i told you to leave her there hungry--
let her rest--
it was how she wanted to be-- 
she never wanted you to build her a sculpture--
she wanted to forget the space--
dug deep for a stomach of only dead leaf--
naked bristle thigh spires in evergreen 
and the bare neck stretch marks of birch
-- contort femurs
to hold up a grey-shell sky--
cracked to give birth to a flurry of 
snowball chickadees in january 
you took pictures with your flip phone--
pearl in the hazy screen of a clam--
our yard only wanted to sleep hungry through 
the winter but you wanted her 
for garden shovels-- 
wanted to feel Mud
caramelized on your rubber boots--
pry coffee cakes from under the grass so 
as to clear space for the 
that shovel-- dirt slanted garden
shovel poised always so much like 
a pairing knife--
i watch you while i cut
granny smith apples from 
a kitchen window-- i'm baking you
a pie for when you're done
like a good oven should--
i couldn't look away when you
took the knife to finally
reach her thick jugular in the soiled--
bleed the sewer line across
the crisp tassel lawn--
Couldn't you have carved her statues 
of stone? of sugar? of Himalayan
pink rock salt-- lit with a tea candle?
she didn't need more butter 
to make her feel so much like a dead leaf--
evergreen hairs into pin pricks--
i watched you raid the fridge stick
by stick and toffee brick--
all you needed was the
pairing knife-- cube each box to 
erect effigies of what we look for
in a girl-body of butter-- she
had curves-- grease face glisten 
in dew-- she'll eat again when there's 
white flowers to chew on in the yard--
the statues are just going to melt 
anyway when the sun cracks the grey
shell of the sky--
i don't have enough butter
the finish the apple pie so 
i'm waiting for you to come inside--
put the pairing knife in the coffee table
drawer-- i'll steal it by
the lamp posts-- cut the arms
from a statue to fill the blue mixing bowl--
i worry the smell of the apples turning
into rubber boot caramel will
wake you so we'll try to smell 
quietly by the flat tongue
of the oven-- she's telling me
to stop the the mud from bleeding--
wrap her veins in pie crust 
and bake with the butter statues--
i tell her i am only as much as an oven--
and a pie can only smell so quiet--
she cries in drops
pieces of stars through the cracks
of a chickadee nest in january--
jugular bleeding into a pool
to hatch frogs and white
flower in the spring-- wake 
up in search of a shovel or
a pairing knife only to
cut butter--

Strawberry Lips 

words left in her locket heart offbeat 
her breaths don’t 
come together 
she tries to match the outside 
wind but can’t keep up 
holding herself tightly to fight 
the cold 
but also because her own 
arms are the only one’s she’s 
ever known 

quiet strawberry lips 
of a girl kept to herself 
waiting in the shade 
having never known the sun

We got evicted with a hot tea kettle
drank chamomile from street corner bunk beds--
rolled our smiles as croissants out of the moon

It was only a matter of time before
the landlord figured out we were 
only paying in chocolate coins
and foil swaddled crackle-candy eggs--
I was surprised we had got to stay there
that long-- the fourteenth floor apartment
which would have been the thirteenth
floor if we didn't trust our numbers
more than the heights we built with brick-- 
we loved each other 
dangling over the spider-eye city--
blinking us through another bright hour--
New York never sleeps and neither do we--
our coffee pot is the handles of the skyline
written in cracked coca cola caps--
m&ms in or pockets is all we got for begging--
so we danced to the swollen bell of a french 
horn player-- leaning up again one
of the subway's centipede legs--
the tea kettle was still warm when 
they smacked the door with yellow phone
books-- said no one lives on candy anymore--
and we laughed because we do--
make wedding rings out of the wrappers--
no they aren't for us-- but we like
to marry ourselves every night
when we drink chamomile tea--
and the water was warm enough for
us to brew the pot here
from our bunk beds on the street corner-- 
sometimes people ask us why we sleep 
on separate pillows if we're so in love--
we don't share blankets well--
we drool dream-- coil as warm
as croissants-- butter layered 
between the sheets-- but in the morning
we do get
up in sync and start the dough
for the real croissants--
butter roll and folded us into 
the pavement-- the others watch
from alley way blanket forts--
and wonder how we conjure an oven
from a street lamp-- share butter
like lips-- have patience of
all of each other's layers--
there was always enough butter
to grow taller
than the fourteenth floor
we used to dangle from-- but
of course we still climb
a storm drain when it gets
too dark for them to notice us 
not waiting in the oven wracks
of our bunk beds-- stuffed elephants
and black bears to keep watch so
the tea kettle doesn't boil
over on the street lamp-- we're making
chamomile to counter act the 
bubble of the coffee pot in the 
billboards-- in the shoe-shuffle
dance of a stop-light-- blister
heel pop of a french horn--
just because we sleep on separate
bunks doesn't mean we don't make 
love layered croissants from
the top of the apartment building
they kicked us out of-- yes
we're the ones whose smile 
rose into the curve of the moon--
we lived on the thirteenth floor
unlucky as they come wrapped in tin foil--
we keep a tea kettle warm--
hot breath into the night air--
and the arachnid gaze of a city
watched us bake-- layer-- rise
flaky skin off our elbows--
what will we do with the bunk beds?
without a roof? 
sleep against a different
joint of the centipede--
lullaby in brass calliope--
my lover she is a baker like
me-- generous with butter
and the process of laminating 
these smiles--
we drool dream of a doughnut shop--
we don't share a coffee mug
because we don't share a bunk of
the bed--
use the yellow phone books to build a roof
alley way blanket fort of the night--
re-fill the tea kettle from the 
rain spout--
climb down from the gutter--
fold the eviction notice
into a paper airplane-- 
eat the chocolate coins and gamble
with butter and pillows-- 

my father is building me a bookshelf:
we laugh about suicide Twizzlers
and falling down 
cisterns to sit with Pop-pop 

he doesn't know it yet but
my father is building me a bookshelf--
he has been since i was born
and he could hold me like a Heisman trophy
you see--
i come from a line of men 
who fall down cisterns to hide from
their own depression-- 
craft stain glass windows
from green and brown beer bottles--
my grandfather drank whiskey
before he died-- tapped 
his cane all the way down to the reservoir 
of rain water-- fell in ash--
left his cane by the front door
of the red chicken coop--
my father says that Pop-pop liked
to say that no one would find
him in the underground well--
the thick stony vein in the yard--he
could wait there and finally
be alone--
and it's funny because when
we say we want to be alone
but we really just want 
to be loved as tall
as a bookshelf-- sculpt
bookends from our own spines--
we want
to die but only faintly--
like the light in a stained glass
window made of whiskey bottles--
we wake up wanting to die
and go to bed wanting to die
but only part of us-- the part
of us we seal in the cistern--
we aren't a fan 
of dramatic exits--
my father twists a stone well
from a fist of Twizzlers 
--ear buds in another
90s punk video where he remembers 
himself as Kurt Cobain--
shot gun full of Twizzler teeth--
until I was ten I was at least
sure that he might be John Lennon--
my father has fallen down cisterns
but we don't leave him alone--
we know he builds things
to keep himself out of rain water--
I build my walls with words 
and he uses wood-- my father
taught me to put love in a bookshelf
-- my cistern is
a poem-- a dog eared page--
a chapter book simmered over a night light--
sometimes i wish my father was sitting
in a rocking chair while i fall asleep--
my father is building me a bookshelf
and we don't know how tall it will
be yet-- 
he adds another row each year--
writes letters in flyleaf pages
to thrown down the well--
some nights me and him will sit there
with my grandfather
just to hear our voices echo--
i told my father that i'm like
him-- that i always kind of
want to die and i know he doesn't say 
anything because sometimes
there's nothing you need to say--
there's only mornings to cut out
of wood-- a basement light--
the yawn of a staircase-- 
my words cooked over a night light--
my father sneaking out of my bed room
so as to not wake me up--
i spent two years pretending to sleep
so he could leave--
sometimes i wonder if he knew--
we both went to bed fumbling our
way 
down the stair case made of green
beer bottles-- 
twist tongues like Twizzlers--
burn suicide notes in the nightlight--
pass a whiskey bottle with my grandfather
whose laugh can't be contained 
by a cistern
yes my father has been building me
a bookshelf every morning--
i have yet to find something
to build for him--
for now i'll dig in the yard
with a stanza-- make our
spines into bookends--
pray poetry over a nightlight
Our fathers who art in a cistern
hallowed be thy bookshelf--
our kingdom in rain water
and fists of Twizzlers

How we abandon a year:
december on the porch, 
playing mahjong with calendar squares,
and midnight mini quiche kazoos

1.
we all share one lie--
it's our only solidarity as
humans--
Bang a tea kettle
a sauce pan
a wooden spoon
against the stomach of
the spaghetti pot 
we work to scare away
december-- she's harvested the
unused calendar squares again
and clinks them like mahjong tiles
outside the living room window

2.
we carry the burden of
the years we all failed to 
sit down to write an ending for--
we dropped handfuls of stars--
made our own planets to ascend from 
the sky in order to make believe
we had come to some conclusion
but december she knows us 
better-- and our love of 
each january is only a honeymoon
of perhaps 
& sparkling grape juice 

3.
my mother makes mini quiche--
spinach purses & pot stickers
my brother plays the symphony 
of a kazoo-- 
we make calendars until
midnight--
monday tuesday wednesday
monday thursday friday
weekend weekend yearend
end in the peel of a page--
we're cutting time
into mahjong tiles for december
to taunt us with next time
we decide to be done 
with a year--

4.
the calendar was 
made to protect us-- 
help us forget
that we have never actually
succeeded in concluding a year--
no we don't end years--
we abandon them--
lock the windows & pull
down the blinds
so we don't remember who
we were last time
we forgot a year on the porch

5.
drunk off sparkling cider--
grape juice mug-- fold paper
stars to throw out the
window of my old
bed room onto the ledge
collecting snow & the 
erratic notes of my brother's
kazoo

6.
we were singing auld lang syne
days gone by 
days gone by
write me an ending in mini quiche
& aluminum foil

7.
stay up till midnight with
me & we'll start over
write the calendars in triangles--
prophesier girl in pajama pants--
kiss me into a new notebook--
dog ear december--
build a fire
build a fire

8.
build a window ledge
build a star
build a planet to drop 
like a god-- we're all trying
to forget what we abandon 
when we get a year older
play kazoos to call them
home-- remember your body
last year and the number
of mini quiches tucked
under your tongue
when we spoke--
when we kissed midnight goodbye
and she only sat on the porch--

9.
bang a tea kettle to 
set a planet on fire--
kiss a mug of grape juice

10.
i like it when i have someone 
else to share a lie with--
let's make our own calendar
144 mahjong tiles long--
fold each into a star--

11.
a sauce pan
a wooden spoon-- 
let's not pretend the year is over--
im not really one for funerals anyway--

let's play mahjong just the four
of us
me, my brother, mother
and december 
she cheats and adds squares
cut out of aluminum foil

12. 
good morning let's pretend
we're new bodies--
love these bodies as everyone
loves the first day 
of our make believe january 
run away to a windowsill
i'll feed you mini quiche 
-- clink grape juice mug--
drop the illusion of a new year
from the window sill--
mahjong tile--
december playing kazoo on the porch--
cook spaghetti in a wooden spoon

clip my toe nails like the moon,
sticky bun door knobs,
and running from me like rotisserie chicken.

i want to be ugly 
spin me on a diner stool.
i want to be ugly again 
finally--
ive missed it-- ive been playing dress up
with paper napkins in the mirror-- making veils
to keep the toast crumbs from my lap at
the diner-- we sit at the counter-- i
eat hard boiled eggs from the nest
of ice berg lettuce we bodies learn 
to crash into-- freeze and sink slowly--
play violins on the deck of a fork
and the side of a spoon-- carving 
our names in the side of the rock
jutting from the plate--
no we were not pretty-- no we weren't 
folded back edges of our bodies--
dog ear my hips into handles--
we modified these torsos with less air
make me an hour glass to tip over
and over and over
spun sticky bun fingers wiping 
sand or sugar from counting these minutes
standing on my head
-- put your
feet on the toilet seat-- clip your 
toe nails into another moon sliver--
we ugly 
bodies know how to make use of an
eclipse-- know to flush
the moon down the toilet-- watch it
grown full as a cinnamon bun--
when i was nine my uncle taught me
how to be ugly-- 
eating with hands-- not
the side of a fork-- cutting into
the arctic and the ice berg-- 
step on cherry tomatoes--
we learned
rotisserie chicken warm lap-- break
bird skin like bread-- dig finger
in grease and heat lamp these
arms into crackle-- brown
the arch of my back i was
only ever ugly and waiting for a heat
lamp-- they don't remind you the
moon is only one of our toe nail clippings
and im tired of pretending that i
want to eat cereal from a measuring
cup at the counter-- i am a sourdough
sausage sandwich-- sticky bun
cheeks full of enough ugly for
you to forget im supposed to be a girl
supposed to napkin lap-- coiled
like a hard boiled egg on
the spine of lettuce curl--
i like to be ugly-- foot poised 
in conquest of a toilet seat--
you thought i was kidding about
the chicken? 
yes i eat chicken from my
lap and it keep me warm--
i split sticky buns with no
boys anymore
-- they can fear my ugly--
fade in my toe nail eclipse-- 
ill show
them how to eat lettuce and smile
bright as a toe nail night--
even boys can learn what we 
do to stop them from calling us ugly--
no i want to be your ugly--
what you call ugly i call 
goddess of the toilet seat--
queen of a diner cushion-- spun 
into a sticky bun-- pull out my
hair in clumps until i can be 
bald enough from the heat lamp--
boil peel off this chicken skin--
drum dark meat on the bathroom door--
stick stick sticky with the grease
on the door knob--
its your turn to clip the moon
from my feet--
this is what it takes to pay tribute--
take the other wing-- i prefer 
to eat the legs--
that way i know at least that boy
can't run when he finds out
im here to become an ugly 
girl-- i don't share sticky buns--
these are mine and 
so is the door knob

dont trust boys who eat peaches.

before you make the mistake of falling in love with a boy ask him
what his favorite fruit is-- my rapist ate peaches-- blush bruise--
tore all of us out like pits because boys dont take one of anything--
knot up our fists like apples--punch the flowers out of trees-- 
grabbed my ass like a cantaloupe-- honey dew these thighs like the
guava girl-body you were meant to be-- pucker up papaya mouth
-- this is what we were meant for-- watermelon heads of mine-- seed ridden and 
broke open in the back seat of someone else's Oldsmobile that 
i nicked-named god-- my brains have white seeds and we spit out
yours all black--
dont trust boys who eat peaches--i was the pit and so were you
and what did we girl-bodies expect from a campfire or a backseat?--
why didn't anyone teach us not to chew the seeds when we're nervous
--we would all come to grow watermelon vine from our mouths-- sprawled
out and cubed for the fruit salad-- eye of grape-- cheek bones
flushed as strawberry halves-- hair tuft of leaf on my thighs--
dont kiss boys who lick the fire off marshmallows-- 
they're only practicing for what they want to
do to our necks-- twist stem on a park bench-- an underwear waist band
my rapist fed me pizza skin-- cheese pealed off
the tomatoe pie-- we bubbled scabbed underneath-- swallow pepper
flake in a flame-- drink root beer from a concrete step and remember
that you told him you loved him-- because we have all loved our rapists 
or thought we loved our rapists and they weren't ALL bad were they?
they knew what good fruit was like and just took their fair share--
planted seeds in their pockets to leave up no where else to grow but 
in their pants-- laughed because sick girls grew roots so easy--
eat the skin off pizza if you make them-- bent over 
a hole in the back yard where they're trying to throw up enough 
of your peach pits to plant a new tree-- reach branches to
a windowsill from which to pick our own peaches-- we dont want
to love the boys whose pockets we live in-- but who can blame
a girl-body for the skin of a peach grazed against her cheek--
he knows how to spell rape close enough to love to keep
her planting chewed pit after chewed pit into his jean pockets--
were you a watermelon? an apple? 
should we trust him if he ate apples-- green skin or gold?--
or punch like the fist of a red delicious? broke open
seeds in teeth-- pits in teeth-- 
apple is just another way of saying peach
and love can be another word for rapist 
and rapist can be another word for i lonely
or concrete step-- or root beer cap roasted from 
a camp fire or that back seat of someone else's Oldsmobile. 

you and me and honey bee ice cream,
potting wheel for the candles,
and fires lit in apple blossom

i know that i love you because
i want to buy an orchard-- dress
as bee keepers to
harvest love sickness from the combs--
make believe we taught the 
bees about what it is to be a sister
to be a hive-- swarm angry as August--
sting every keeper who tries
to teach you what your honey is
for-- we make ice cream-- 
the bees stay up at night to build candles
for the church-- 
our church--
our stone stacked church
of stained glass-candy walls
breathing morning-- 
we eat our honey
ice cream for breakfast from sofa 
pews-- learn worship for the hum
of another sister-- 
were burning
candles for our queen--
Mary wrote the galaxy on the inside
of her blue robe-- 
plucked star's from
her son's hands to build honey combs
for us to hide in-- 
spin spin spin
the wax into candles-- we're lighting
a church you see-- 
between 
the honey crisps and the pink ladies--
we need the whole hive 
to light every blossom--
we never asked a king's permission
to steal
fire from the gods-- we found it 
ourselves in the flowers--
in the orchard-- swell under 
the apple eclipsing moon-- put
stars in the comb-- eat the ice cream
with honey wands-- beat wishes
in the grids of our wings-- 
dropping heavy in apple basket
wicker wove-- 
we take turns at the potting
wheel to make the candles into trees--
into windows-- into the stained glass
of wings-- 
take back the orchard
in an angry sting-- we're still bitter
about the apples, sisters-- 
we're still
looking for a way to call back 
the snakes who got us here-- 
everyone told us to be scared 
of serpents
but we really should of have been
scared of men--
not men-- boys who spell their name 
ADAM--
boys lighting fires without
a blossom-- kindling 
in pollen--
smash combs into their coffee mugs--
but they won't find our church--
that's we build so many trees--
we bought the orchard--
we sting-- trade night shifts 
making candles to keep 
out the bee keepers--
keep ourselves curled up
again in the comb-- Mary 
dropping sugar in our pockets--
we've been living fallen
from a honey wand-- dinner of basket
apples-- of wing grid-- 
we're not sleeping in your smoke--
we're awake and we don't die
with a sting-- there's too
many of us 
and we remember you--
and we remember what apples taste
like-- Mary fills them with
our honey-- sleep in grid
in shifts-- we're waiting
for you-- watching by 
flower bud fires-- the 
sun was only a match stick
in the window but we took
it and grew trees--
lay with me in a pew-- i'll
keep the candles lit tonight 
and wake you up when the
stained glass candy window
lights up from the passing
of another star--