12/29
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--
12/28
dress me using salad bar tongs-- i'll learn to yell as loudly as your fried chicken strips every girl-body has been a cherry tomato at some point in their life-- take me seed and skin and dry-- we salad bar sisters waiting to be dressed in whatever he's looking for today-- wield tong and spatula-- we figure out from a young age that there's nothing beautiful about being subjected to salad bars-- illusions of choice-- we'll still end up measuring the honey mustard dressing into our hair with table spoons-- we have to fit on buffet plates-- no one ever heard of a fat salad-- why did he shred us into carrots?-- medallion of cucumber?-- cubes of bruised knee beats-- tassels of a bean spout we use to sleep on under the blare of neon light-- NO i'm telling you i get to CRACKLE-- SIZZ-- burn grease on wrists--CRINKLE-- BLOP-- oil bubbles swet from sunflowers we make salad tongs to keep the spring mix from from telling all the girl-bodies about the fryers-- they don't want us to know about how it feels to CRACKLE-- wash bodies in rapture-- walk stain on another man's collar shirt-- i'm not hear to balance another cherry tomato on my forehead for you-- peel the bacon flakes off my arm like freckles-- we baked the croutons while you were looking-- roasted sunflower seeds to snack on while we waited for forks to toss us-- no one chooses raspberry vinaigrette-- light italian just so they know we're still wearing something for them-- men love a girl-body in training on a buffet plate-- warm-- pushing leaves of romaine from in front of her eyes-- cuts her bangs with a fork of pickle coins-- flip heads or tails or vinegar spatter-- spit into the arugula-- spinach fanned in the summer-- i came here to scream-- i couldn't do that under the leaves-- burst-break-bulge from the bouncy ball yolk of wilting hard boiled egg-- toss me from plate to plate-- radish-- ranch dressing racket ball while all you were doing was stalling the fryers-- i am yelling louder-- i am press spatula-- i am fingers of potato we sent into the oil to become obelisks-- i am peeled slices of chicken back sent to sin-- i am toppling off buffet plates and bleeding through the napkin on your lap-- we girl bodies are sick of the quiet-- sick of fork clink and measuring the oil into our hair-- we want to bathe-- we want to be dangerous-- smudge ourselves on everything we touch-- jump into the fryer-- corn dog dive-- cut out onion rings to wear as bangles-- popcorn chicken pearls-- scream into the paper trays in the sweat of a sunflower where we taught you these girl bodies were always too big to be dressed by only the salad bar tongs pressing us into the shape of another cherry tomato-- get oil angry-- crown in sesame bun-- eat me fast-- i want to make you feel guilty for once--
12/27
snake skin bouquets, i turn roses into bronze, and drink tea from deer skulls-- would you be my lady grey?-- the ginseng queen my blooming tea maiden of matcha-- we were bold enough to rapture the tea bags-- take bathes in leaves-- turn dark water into a lagoon where you teach me how to sing-- why doesnt anyone tell me they can sing-- she sings like snakes or the batter bowl undulation of medusa heads of jelly fish-- i sleep like a bloom-- tossed shopping bags of bronze-- of rose petal-- wild flower feet-- we meet at that lake where the moon jellies taught their bodies to intone in light and we washed the bones clean in the water-- not just skulls our bones-- your bones-- these bones to marred by milk-- dip me cookie blush-- melted into the tea pot where we all became butterflies-- where moths fell burned into metal-- into bronze-- into wing rose petal as they banged their heads into another sun-- fell fast and crumpled you said i was a chamomile kind of person i take myself by the warm lake belly full of moon with two yellow packets, a tiny blue spoon, and a squeeze of lemon to make me glow-- i dont sing like her-- we broke open the deer skulls by the stitches-- peel like citrus-- like mugs of bone-- we make tea from the fog-- lit clouds up in my head lights-- found honey pulled from jelly fish arms siphoned from dew on the metal roses-- she picked me up like a bouquet of shed snake skins-- she knows where the serpents leave their overcoats when they dance naked with the mice under the soppy forest brewing leaves under our feet-- how did you sing like a Garter-- eat berries from the red eyes of a cornsnake-- i rattle-hiss when you sing-- i python these hands together-- heavy like rose bronze-- stitched like the pieces of a fox skull-- we were bare foot when we walked on water-- but it was really just the jelly fish letting us use them like stepping stones-- like goddess-- like Jesus feeding the snakes again-- he's sick of being called a boy-- cut his hair and tossed it to the water like a shopping bag bloom into medusa-- oh lady grey-- hold on to me by the tea bag string-- we'll make jellyfish pillows-- wash our hands of all those stings in milk-- crumble we cookie blushed faces-- id rather wear scarves of snake skin-- than be another girl-body wrapped up in long hair-- we drink tea from skulls-- wash off the beetles in milk-- the mice and the snakes aren't ashamed to be naked around us because they know how well you sing and how i am just a chamomile girl-body who puts flowers in their hair when i steep--
12/26
When God used the lakes to brew ginger tea and mistaking the stop lights for U.F.O. beams How many times has someone asked you to get lost with them? Escape by means of a stream of light in the window-- gaping mouth of a street lamp-- the tongue of the headlights-- Wander loose from this world like the tassels of white altar robe chords-- braid impatient in all of our laps-- We wait for night time like we wait for the bell acolyte to remind us that God is a ponderous creature with headlights in his feet-- drops the tea bags in the lake when his throat is sore for the blaze of the stars crowding his head again-- I said to open the back door to let the fog inside-- mist the windows-- take my hand before we turn into the milky bodies of ghosts-- I said I saw a U.F.O. and you didn't believed me-- you said it had to be God or the angels slipping stones of honey from the edge of the body of water-- tumble boil in the morning-- I stop at green lights-- stare ready to be assumed and you tell me that GREEN means GO and RED also means GO if it's foggy enough out the windows-- I told you They're here-- they're here for us-- for me and you-- the angels in flying saucers with their headlights for eyes and knuckles gripped around the lamp posts like lollipops-- dangle in a white altar robe chord you left the back door open like I had said-- I set out the bags of ginger tea on the counter so as the steep the air-- breath in roots-- soil-- lake water pouring over the honey rocks-- and I opened the windows too You said that it was too much-- that you couldn't see where your body ended and where mine began-- I laughed because I had never wanted to be so lonely in only my own skin God took a deep sip to test the tea before he let the angels toss in the evergreen trees on the edge of the water add the boulders and over turn the paddle boat owned by no one but maybe the stop lights-- and the U.F.Os that hover just above the steam from the brewing of the ginger tea in our little forest Close the windows lock the back door with the latch You said-- because you were scared of becoming me-- scared of being assumed by another stop light scared of letting your body fumble loose into tea leaves-- mix with the honey-- blink like a street lamp to climb all the way up the strings of the tea bags-- By the time I was ready to shut the house away again it was already too late-- the roof lifted and lifted until it blurred into a cloud-- each tile to fall again as sleet the next November I left the door unlatched in case we heard his tea pot whistle in the throat of the robins still trying to build a nest in the fog-- I used the twine of the tea bags to climb up the side of the house-- scramble in the open top back into my bed-- write love letters on your arms or was it only the mist on the window? Where ever it was it was also patient at a stop light where the U.F.O. contemplated which one of us would make the best pot of ginger tea from the headlights and the lake water.
12/25
The ornament harvest, my father who keeps fireflies under the sink and the fruit left glass in our teeth-- My brother and I wear sunhats in the living room-- The mildew must is from the cardboard boxes on our hips-- we've been preparing for the harvest-- We know bare feet. We have always kept August somewhere in our house-- In my father's lightning bug mason jars underneath the sink-- In the callouses the drive way gave my mother's bare feet-- in the dried white flowers on the book shelves and in puddles of raspberry jam becoming an ocean in a shortbread cookie-- We don't waste time stringing lights when it becomes December-- my father just pops open another jelly-jar of fireflies who laugh red and green into the evergreen grove-- star-crowned tree tops push up through the carpet-- part the rug-- fold over into cream soil-- the sofa shifts to the side nudged by cinnamon roots-- prick of pine needles on our noses-- branches protrude in front of door frames-- we limbo to the breakfast table under each limb-- The living room contorts into an orchard once again-- We water Christmas trees in hot chocolate morning-- Put on eggnog sun screen to prevent us from burning again like gingerbread men while we pluck glare from glass orbs -- cinnamon mixes with freckle and we harvest the ornaments for breakfast just like our father taught us-- twist the metal hooks to strum each apple-- each quince-- each gold finch perched and ripening in glitter-- each planet swollen from drinking so many of our grandfather's mugs of hot chocolate and whiskey-- the fruit remembers the war-- it remembers wrapping paper tumble weeds-- it remembers growing-- and the first time it was pierced onto a metal hook to drink chocolate with the rest of us in the morning-- the fruit remembers the year my mother was sick and we all got a brother-- it remembers robot dinosaurs and the steady slumping of the sofa-- it remembers the advent wreath with the shout purple candle and the lost heads of the wise man's camel-- it remembers foot prints on the snow roof and carpet soil knees-- the fruit remembers years when we didn't grow Christmas trees-- when the carpet was bare-- coffee stained and the lightning bugs underneath the sink died in November-- the fruit remembers our foreheads and the trash bags of wrapping paper we had to sleep in for warmth. my father always takes the first bite-- picks the glass from his teeth and spits blood on the china plates-- the one with the real gold in the rim-- next is my mother who always thinks they taste like figs then we pass them to my brothers and I-- I think the ornaments taste like pizzelles-- like a spoon full of jam-- like split oreos and dissolving chocolate squares under your tongue-- like teeth brushed with candy canes and torrone-- my brother tastes spoons of honey-- the aluminum wrappers of gold coins we planted in the yard to grow fortunes. The fruit remembers-- and we pass to our left so everyone gets a bit-- pack our mouths with gauze and go back to check on the orchard overcoming the television set and the curled back bone of the ceiling-- the trees grow well this year-- prune the ornaments free of tinsel and the fireflies sleep on the branches only to be collected back into the mason jars and stored carefully under the sink.
12/24
My father paints every snowflake. My mother speaks mustard seed multitudes. You see my father makes the snowflakes. He wasn't assigned the job-- he took it on as a side gig one year when he discovered all he needed was paint and wood and he could build us each a roof to drop a blizzard from-- God tells my father that he has the snow covered-- that my father doesn't need to work so hard to build so many snowflakes-- My father turns up the radio and picks glitter from under his nails-- grumbles that God never made a snowflake like him-- my father makes the type of blizzard that everyone wants-- snow warm marshmallow melted coco mud mush on our fur boots-- soak our legs in the muck of candy cane-- we were all the kids of chocolate dirt and excited cold fingers on mugs-- Those blizzards pressed down our our foreheads like the tightening of mason jars in the pot-- call the children from the shelves-- from the refraction of each ornament-- from toy trains buckled around our waists hula hoop me holidays-- My brother and I noticed Santa only knows how to write in crayon. The rattle of the basement is my father as he makes snow-- He's always makes the snow but we pretend to be surprised when we wake up white-- glitter under our finger nails-- new paint stain on his jeans-- The oven is my mother-- the bread rising on the baking sheet-- spritz cookie shot gun and open doors of an advent calendar-- she's the pink candle-- while my father makes the snow she makes each of us mustard-- pulls us apart in seeds of quiet multitudes-- she says the kingdom is a snowflake or was it a mustard seed-- we plant both in the carpet of my house to be safe and there's where the Christmas tree sprouts each year-- we water it with blizzard-- bake it until it scrapes the ceiling with the star-- the blue orb that hatches at night in the flour hands of my mother who is still counting the lids of the mason jars in on the shelf-- my brother Joey asks if my father dresses as Santa Claus sometimes at night. I laugh because my father hammered each glisten into the snow flakes-- my mother broke us into a galaxy of mustard seeds-- lit our foreheads in tongue of flame to lick candy canes-- I laugh because I don't know who eats the cookies-- who drinks the milk but I do know who builds the snow flakes and who is the oven and who keeps the lids on the mason jars-- we all planted this tree to harvest the ornaments-- pluck them plump and ripe in January-- dripping in coco nectar-- we collect their mustard seeds to plant next year-- and my father already has blue prints for the snowflakes.
12/23
Stirring our bodies like mice, the sugar plum groove and boy saints shoved down our chimneys-- When I was seven I dreamed my skin into wrapping paper to smother the mice in the basement-- the nest-- the coil-- the tinsel tangle-- we had nightmares about their bodies writhing in another glue trap-- fur peeling like tangerines in the pot on the stove-- what did we kill the mice for? Every Christmas I felt sorry because my brother and I stirred our bodies like the mice-- hands and knees and my father's sweater sleeves we slept in-- I woke my brother up to remind him we had to protect the house but he wasn't scared because my brother was a boy and didn't mind someone coming down the chimney-- no one breaks windows for brothers-- he could sugar plum groove and steal cookies from the plate like all little boys are taught to do-- we grew fingers of mice and gamboled gentle on the arms of the clock-- elbow turn into midnight-- we waited as anxious as the last step up the staircase to the attic. That's where the ghosts of the bats ate mice tails and sugar plums-- wrapped wings for Christmas and roasted tangerines on in the oven-- I know who taught me my skin was wrapping paper. We all do. We keep names like ribbons and bows from unwrapped gifts-- Christmas cards we'll never read again under our beds-- don't throw me away like a glue trap-- tangerine skin girl-body again-- finger nails through my skin-- teach me to become a present for you saint boy in your red suit-- did you eat cherries or sugar plums or the bricks down my chimney to become so red soot and scramble like another mouse-- why don't we make glue traps for boys who come to eat our cookie plates? make welcome mats of the stove top and wipe boots on the door knob-- my father sleeps like a tangerine drink milk-- wipe chocolate from saint nick gloves on the carpet-- leave us stained and peel skin like wrapping paper-- was I your present to wrap and unwrap wrap and unwrap-- Merry Christmas tag this girl-body in training-- we sleep under the tree for him-- waiting with all these cookies-- bows on our wrists tied like a witch to a Christmas tree-- mouse back glue trap-- we are here waiting by another chimney just to watch him eat the bricks-- one by one shortbread jaws of a man with claws-- saint saint saint and the black sack to keep all us wrapped up girls-- squirm like mice while my brother takes a cookie from the plate and peels it in two-- dip milk and sugar plum groove back to bed where I have never slept and he falls into the taunt ribbon of a stirred mouse dream-- I'm listening for feet on the roof-- we're taught to love the man who wants to descend down our chimneys ready to wrap us up perfect for the dirt beneath the tree-- burn tangerines and plums to leave the room smelling like saints-- Yes I remember his name. We all do. We all know who made our skin into wrapping paper-- we all tried to sway like a sugar plum-- we all baked so many cookies and never ate a single one-- face down in a glue trap-- bow wrist and sugar plum sugar plum dance with him back up a chimney--
12/22
She laughs like a handful of raspberries: Kiss me in the hollow of the mouse skulls and we'll read goodnight from tea leaves Let's take a walk in those woods of yours-- become smaller and smaller until we can meander underneath the wire-wings of burnt-auburn and beige leaves-- smell the rot of the forest drip into our skin like the nervous blushing of the dew on the grass becoming December. We collect the sound of each rustle in the distance to make lockets-- you and I remember the feet of the moths on the trees-- the knees of a cicadas bent in August-- We keep raspberries in our pockets-- make bracelets from the drosy dandy lions who forgot their manes-- Oh I have crumpled up so many kisses on boy wrists and the windowsill of a midnight. beat me dead butterfly wing and your cheek bones you peel off of a hyacinth-- Oh what I would have done if I had know someone could laugh like a handful of raspberries-- I want to show you where I used to sit in the grass peel spearmint leaves off the bush behind my house-- I want you to meet the foxes and and feed them watermelon rind-- I'll teach you how I paint a sunset like a bruised knee-- pastel thumbs and sleeping on a bed of spear mint so we can make tea in the morning-- Hold me like a mug handle-- and we can steep in amber-- share the mint leaves-- one for you and one for me-- Your voice is like a tablespoon of honey-- stir my hair like chestnuts or the rustling of our lockets-- trade raspberries like nickles-- The mice will learn to leave their skulls on the forest floor for us to ramble through-- I don't want to kiss you like another bruise or hold you only like a mug handle-- I want to kiss you like a handful of raspberries in the summer in the hollow and the shadow of a mouse skull where stop between the layers and layers of leaves stacked like tiramisu and dead butterfly wing-- I know I never kissed you before but I know I have kissed honey and I know I've kissed boys and I hope you can forgive me for all the pieces of myself I've set in pressed flowers on the window still-- Let's take a walk in those woods of yours-- our mugs and our hands to hold each other steady on wobbly stones-- the knuckles of the forest King who waits over us both-- we laugh at him because he thinks that we could ever fall but we have each other to steady our foot steps in the slippery frost snapped morning-- We'll sleep in the rib cage of a deer-- brew tea with the nervous blush of dew as the sun plummets heavy as a tablespoon of honey-- And you'll laugh like you always do like raspberries-- We'll finish each other's mugs and read stories from the patterns in the leaves-- soaked silhouette of a mouse skeleton and the shadow of another elm tree on the forest floor-- grow tall with me-- We'll escape from the bellies of the leaves-- walk into the midnight I tried to leave on a windowsill-- meet me there and we'll sleep dangled in the rustling of our lockets and the quiet laughter of spear mint and our silhouettes bruised into the inside of a mug.
12/21
Three pancakes tall, peanut butter knife, and and my practice of waking up in other people's beds. I want to talk about pancakes. I want to talk about sleeping underneath dough-- about soaking the house in the hot breath of a cast iron pan-- about waking up to the wrist of my mother at the stove and the gasping of the coffee machine calling us all the kitchen-- I want to talk about about the peanut butter knife in the sink and the open bag of cinnamon raisin bagels in the bread box. I want to talk about the counter of the airport diner back when me feet didn't touch the ground-- My uncle hoisted me up on a stool and I spun myself smooth like the flick of a peanut butter knife-- measured myself three pancakes high and laughed like the mouth of syrup cruet-- I wake up in other people's beds sometimes now. No not what you think. I don't meet the people at all I don't wake up as them-- I just wake up where they would be--- there in orange quilts-- teal fleece -- look up at a foreign ceiling-- a side table cluttered with photographs of unremembered families smiling at me again like syrup-- I feel just like a pancake does counting the rotations of a fan's orbit around a ceiling-- I feel just like a knife in a sink and I wonder if when I wake up again this time it will be in my own bed-- my own warm plate three pancakes short perched on the kitchen counter-- Oh!-- We were all breathed alive by the glimmer of a cast iron pan and the absent spatula of my mother-- we all have flushed cheeks-- cover our morning burns in syrup-- laugh dangle-legged at the diner counter-- we count biplanes and plunge fork deep-- we're butter foreheads-- I want to talk about the bread box-- about stale rye bread and the cinnamon raisin bagel that waits for me when I get home past midnight in my own bed I set your alarm so when you wake up five minutes earlier you will have extra time to listen to the pancakes being born and stacked like blankets one on one on one on top of you to keep you warm-- to wake you up in the right bed this time-- to remember the peanut butter knife askew in the sink-- From your bed I count six rotations of the fan before I decide to sleep again-- before I decide that you probably miss it here and I wake up again beneath a pancake on my mother's plate-- so does not notice I'm burnt under the wrist flick of peanut butter. I didn't mean to see all your photos on the end table but I wanted to say you're tall and beautiful and short and rapturous whoever you are-- I wanted to say you should wake up five minutes early each day just to smell the pancakes-- measure yourself with a notch on the wall and dip syrup over your wrists in the bathroom-- when they ask why you're late for breakfast you can blame me-- you can blame me for waking up to count the rotations of your ceiling fan-- look across the diner counter see me seeing you and you seeing and look away-- I smell like the cough of a coffee machine the crinkle of biplane outside your bedroom window and the cinnamon raisin bagel patient in the bread box.
