Poison mushrooms 
and other accidental acts of suicide.

1.
We sold our tents to the blue jays
so that they would stopping calling us
names. Slept on each others shoulders and
split every pack of oats and honey granola bars in half
until we ate the wrappers too-- shiny-plastic enveloped 
our tongues to savor the last pieces of
food we had packed. 
We had wanted to hike
all the way on the Appalachian spine 
to escape the brownies we left burning in
the oven--
We only made it across the street
to the playground where we both re-learned 
our bodies as hunter gatherers.
We ate Galerina mushrooms not knowing they would
take five days to turn our kidneys to limestone.
2.
We didn't know better. We only knew how to make
brownies and how to pull up the grass
at night like a quilt.
I used to love blue jays until
I met them. They spattered hair gel 
in their crests and elbowed their brothers
when they came up with another way
to say "whore"-- flapped their wings at
us like fly swatters when we tried to sleep
underneath the big Red Oak tree where
all the birds live out of blank craft store
tree houses and only the cardinals
still remember how crochet nests.
3.
The cardinals shared their twigs with the blue birds
who were left to nest on the ground next to us.
They were too shy for branches
and didn't want to know what other words
the blue jays could come up with to say "ugly"
or "small" and "whore".
We've always been too shy for branches--
us and the blue birds-- only the blue birds
didn't eat the mushrooms.
4.
They taught us how to make a crossed-leg-- 
soil-kneed existence-- build our
own soft wrists from pieces of moth tails
left over from the summer-- made
mosaics from broken bark across our chest--
We learned how to make brownies from
cut squares of moss-- let the sun simmer
the dirt warm and soaked and moist--
lift each slice-- dug out with your finger nails.
We were creative enough to live on imagined taste. 
We carved pumpkins-- fed the seeds to
the blue birds so that they could grow
the gourds in their bellies-- shoot
vines from their beak and get sown back into
the moss where they nested. They had warned
us about the mushrooms-- but we pretended 
not to remember them-- counted days on our
fingers before we fell asleep--
5.
Woke up like always-- on each others
shoulders to the smell of blue jays wings
and the rising body count of the dead Oak leaves
around our ankles. 
We had liked the taste of the Galerina mushrooms.
It was the blue jays who told us we could eat them.
And they didn't taste like mushrooms.
They had tasted like gum drops or licorice twists
or not-burned brownies slightly uncooked in the center--
oozing like moss and soil.
We had gathered our way into the dirt with
the blue birds and the other
animals that burrow in the winter-- taken
by the mushrooms-- shifted our insides
into the dust of limestone--
We could still hear the blue jay laughing as
we felt our shoulders grow together.
Become moss.
Sleep under Red Oak trees.
Become mushrooms.

The Tuesday out a train window
over blueberry scores and shuttering tea.

We burned our tongues in chai tea--
broke sticks of cinnamon and dusted our
hands in the spice to help us wake up
each morning. Without the smell on
our wrists it
would be hard to tell each day from
the next-- same sauntering-- tap-dance
over the tracks helped us forget
that we used to have names for the days 
of a week like Wednesday and Sunday-- and I still
somehow miss Sunday. I think Sunday might have
worn yellow hats and baked berry tarts
and always had a tea kettle on the stove--
We ordered blue berry scones awhile ago
but they never came-- either that or you
ate them without telling me.
Time doesn't pass the same on the train. 
We demanded the window seats-- there
would be no point of travel otherwise--
dangled ourselves like a pair of counterfeit
crystal earrings there-- held hands and forgot
to talk to each other-- undulated in the clatter of the 
spoon-playing kneed train.
Everyone could play harmonica and I borrowed
yours because I left mine elsewhere. The train could
play out the rhythm and we followed her over
every track-finger snap-- loose-jaw clack 
and choral moan of her wheels sighing
whenever we passed water. They didn't check 
tickets before we went on. They didn't check
backpacks or purses. They didn't smooth 
their hands over our hips to feel if we were
women or men or hiding explosives.
We ordered blue berry scones. 
My mother asked where we were going and
I had wanted to make up some story about
Finish countrysides or the hills of Scotland
both of which I only imagine as green 
but I told her the truth. 
told her that we had wanted to see
our lives outside a train window-- watch 
until life turned into a film reel spun 
across eye lids-- blinked only when it started
to get dark and the sky made a dark room
for us to make photo albums from our seats--
I said 
hurry up before it's bright again and they
bring us more tea-- 
and the tea always burned our tongues
but we never learned different-- the train's 
oscillating waltz kept us in a trance--
we slept walked in our seats and saw
a thousand images of ourselves walking
across green fields in Finland and Scotland
where we had never been before-- we passed
a bazaar in Dehli where we bought more cinnamon
sticks for the chai tea and the night to come--
We wrote the same poem everyday with new words
and fell in love with each other again 
every time the train slowed down to let elephants 
or cows or manatees creep across the tracks
by the moon. I forgot your name and almost called
you Sunday because it was the only name I could remember.
We stopped sleeping through the night
and started counting days differently by the number
of times we saw ourselves outside the window
and number of times we remembered to order blue
berry scones. 
You named me Tuesday-- and I thought it was fitting.
And the train stopped but we kept 
swinging in our chairs and the tea in the cups
still shimmed side-to side.
And it was still bright in the window.
And there was a clock.
And there was a station.
And there were only a thousand versions of
ourselves waiting to board without
backpacks or tickets or explosives.
You said we shouldn't leave before we try
the blue berry scones we had ordered.
I told you I knew you had eaten them
and you said sorry, but not for eating
the scones, for lying about eating them.
And we walked off the train just
to pass another pair of ourselves
get on board. We told them to not forget that
the tea is always hot and to order
blueberry scones to remind you of
the days of the week. He said 
tuesday, tuesday-- my Love.

Climbing the shadows of tree trunks to 
a heaven on potato rolls and sun dried knees.

I've been sleeping in the forest since I can remember.
My father had plucked me from a branch
and used a bushel of white peaches to make my 
body-- each fruit bullied and bruised each other
in the wooden crate. Their scars turned to sickly syrup 
where they used to be white and princess cheeked--
Their skin melted away into the soil of December--
each smelled each other decaying
like the bottom of wet socked shoes. Dying 
slick in each blood-clot red maple leaf
dislodged from the brains of morning storm 
brains for the trees-- 
I was seven gory-peach-pits old.
I was a hand full of a magenta hearts. 
I was seven gory-peach-pits old 
and I knew I could climb trees at least 
the height of a swing-set-- we all could climb
shadows back then and only trip once-- scrape
knees to get the best bandaids--
We grew from those scab-coated-stones. 
Fractured-- flutter-kicked our way through 
the soil until we could breathe in heavy-- 
coughed out the leaves and frost 
and spat the strands of thin worms from our noses-- 
shook free from nests knit of weed and root-- 
the foliage quilt that tried to keep us for herself. 
By the next year I had flourished into seven 
tooth-pick wristed trees. My shadow friends were all there too. 
Moved with me-- chased me-- mimicked my hands--
made puppets-shows of my elbows-- ate the cheese
of my potato roll pizzas while I was too
busy growing each of my seven necks--
They collected their softball visors 
and soccer shorts. Collected the stains from grass blood 
and pizza sauce. We ate pizza at anyone's birthday party
when we all turned seven trees tall at the same time.
They used the shadows of my trunks for picnics-- 
Strung together their yo-yos into hammocks--
built the limbs into rungs of ladders-- 
steps to each of Jupiter's moons-- 
the celestial orb islands on the creek-- 
stuck silk scarves in the ground as flags-- 
made a colony of wet socks in shoes 
and sun-dried knees on asphalt.
I saw myself there-- potato roll pizza in hand and
carcass of a gushing peach in the other-- I was
tall as each peach tree-- syrupy-bruised and fading brown
in the sun-- the caramelized child of another 
October to be born again in the swelling of seven
blushing peaches. When did we grow to big too be supported
by tree shadows? Did we forget our
friends who envelope the bed room at night--
they wait under the bed-- tossing pit pits
like yo-yos and counting the days till
we turn seven-trees tall again.

He died my hair red and fed me marinara sauce.

Out of the ash I rise with my red hair
and I eat men like air -Silvia Plath

He told me I was a RED girl. 
red tongue--
red running face-- red raspberry rose rings
around my eyes that were supposed to be sleeping--
He took me by the shoulders-- by the clavicle--
all the places where boys find handles
on a girl-body-- crumpled me quick--
Tossed me as tissues-- stuffed me hastily back
into the box to be re-contorted again and again--
wipe blood from boy noses and knees.
He laid my body limp inside a brown-skin suitcase--
filled in the empty spaces with 
all my favorite pairs of old underwear--
threadbare with frogs and daisies and
soft-serve ice cream stains--
with the rainbow stripes-- 
with a white-laced waistband not yet afraid 
of how much blood we have waiting
inside our throats-- behind our finger nails--
coiled still blue and reptilian in our veins.
He told me I wasn't supposed to be a BLUE girl--
told me to stop falling into suitcases and start
wearing RED underwear like he wanted-- 
like Christmas girls-- wrapped present girls
RED bow girls in rows--
He didn't care if it was RED-blood or raspberries 
so I soaked my panties in my own sugar and
called myself a honey comb where all the bees
waited patiently for him to eat his fill--
fill his coffee mugs until he drank me
as bloody as a pomegranate-- called me 
temptress-- called his little eve with
the long sweater sleeves-- picked me backup by the
handles and told me it was time I eat something
besides berries-- told me to cup my
hands to hold marinara sauce-- wipe the leftovers
on my jeans-- break my bones into bread sticks 
and take garlic into my seams. 
He thrust my head over a sink and told me
no one wants a BLUE girl-- dyed my hair 
red and I saw BLUE go down the drain--
told me to remember each time I look
in a mirror the color in my hair is the
color he could make all my skin
if he wanted to-- told me that girls can't
hide themselves in blue long enough to 
become a boy-- fed me my own bread stick bones
and mused at the stains on my jeans.
But he didn't know how RED we all are--
that no hair color could make me forget 
my blood-- my blood remembers me each month--
my blood is in my fingernails-- my tongue--
my blue veins. 
So I let you dye my hair RED.
And you thought you took me in a suitcase.
But out of the ash I bake new bread stick
bones-- my hair was RED before you
and it will be RED after you and it will
be ash dusted and blue-veined
to eat you like 
marinara sauce, air, and 
raspberries stain. 

Piñata body and hearing the gun shot.

Most people CUT their wrists, so they say--
And when they find me crumpled and clean
they'll be confused and so so proud-- they'll
say that I'm a good girl because I know
how to die quietly and not make a scene.
I know how to die like taxidermy. Like
the deer head mounted above your uncles
pool table in the basement-- her eyes still listening
for what a gun shot should look like--
perks her ears to smell her own blood
and falling like jar of marbles on the kitchen floor--
is she beautiful?
They make me hold out my wrists out as proof
that there's no scores. No lacerations. No wound--
check my palms for self-stigmata
If only they knew what matches are for.
Forearms are for counting your flaws in lines.
The folds of hips make the cuts into gills.
Breathe in blood and milk--
accordion my body music-- but what
they expected least was for me to lock
myself in my room and begin with paper machete--
each strip of newspaper fused ink with my flesh--
my forehead was a headline about Syria and 
how many stuffed animals they lost
to matches and gasoline-- I paste the "want ads"
across my breasts so I can be flat-chested like
a good dyke-- use the comics for my forearms 
because there's nothing more funny than 
cutting yourself open to find candy-- used the
sports section to wrap around my waist 
because that's all the boys read anyway.
I started with tootsie rolls and moved on to
root beer barrels-- one by one down my throat--
closed my eyes like a deer-- swallowed and stuffed
in my gills-- strands of licorice-- jelly-filled strawberries
bricks of crackle-chocolate and taffy and
ruptured bags of skittles like marbles on the kitchen
floor-- no one suspects a girl to be a piñata--
What a great way to die quietly 
and loud at the same time
Hang yourself by tissue paper. Wait for your birthday.
Invite your friends. Bob for apples. Take up sticks
together to tear holes in the seven-sides
of yourself as a star-shaped piñata-- confetti
tasseled and ready to bleed blow-pops and
tootsie rolls. They won't know it was you.
Too busy with the candy-- they've already
checked your wrists anyway. One of them will
see the headlines on the inside of the piñata-
carcass and wonder if Syria has piñatas
or strawberry jelly candies
or if they wanted to buy an accordion from
the "want ads". They'll look up and notice
the deer head-- still waiting to see the 
sound of gun shot. They'll wonder why
the candy tastes so much like milk and marbles
on a kitchen floor.

We all wanted to be pumpkins
until we watched how they make them smile. 

I painted my hips in the reptilian lips
of a gourd-- built myself a dried steam 
and let all my skin go bumpy and thick-warted--
I didn't care if you wanted me goose-necked
or butternut-- I'll take my own oranges
as a sign that I was meant for porches--
My cheek bones are caramel and apple-stem
and my heels taste like everyone's mother's soup.
I was meant for candles and windowsills
-- I was never meant to be one shape-- 
striped my legs green and walked
across the corn field behind my house--the
field with the dog tooth tomb stones and
the hermit tree watching her own legs decay--
I needed a place pluck myself
from the dry vine-- a nest to die and rot. 
Don't we all want a place 
to pull out each strand of our hair?
Did your scalp grown corn husks or
rows of Indian corn? Did you
weave the husks into dolls or did you drop
each strand one by one into a candle
to watch the flames eat so hungry.
We all had wanted to be
pumpkins at one time or another-- wanted someone 
to carve us teeth-- someone to remove our
centers-- our marrows-- thrust their hands
into the coils of our intestines and 
teach us how to be beautiful-- teach us
how to smile so big that fire would
pour from where our stomachs used to be--
pumpkin spice and saved to rot in pie
crusts instead of corn fields-- just to be
sliced again-- do they every run out of
ways to cut the edges off our curves--?
round us out and burn our bellies--?
Did you really want to be a pumpkin or
did you just want to be held like one?
You don't see them cut the tops off gourds-- 
there's not enough space left to take a pairing knife to 
our chests and make a rib cage into a lantern--
they leave us to the corn husks when we're done
and we tell everyone who rots like Indian corn
that we aren't pilgrims-- we aren't pumpkins--
we are reptile ridges and dog-tooth trenches--
spine like a spattering callous-face tombstones
who forgot their own names in the field behind 
my house. I won't let you carve me teeth--
I won't let you spit ember with my tongue--
my eyes are in all directions-- I don't
see out of triangles I listen from the porch where
I wait-- wait for frost to pare 
each coating of skin my scars built--
smell the pumpkin pie from the kitchen.
lose green to November and sprawl out for December
to turn my seeds to tombstones in the corn field.

I heard the sky orange and saw the feral cats whisper
beneath the kitchen.

We used to be so mean to the cats that 
slept in the crawl space between the red-speckled floor 
of the kitchen and the masoleum-slab basement where rats
spread poison on saltine crackers to share--
they told each other stories of winter passing 
and laid down in front of the radiator before
they slept with their poison bellies and
heavy electric chord tails--
We waved our arms and watched
the cats scatter and find the under bellies
of mushrooms to creep under-- watched their
eyes turn into quarters-- glint with death
and five fingers tight holding them down--
their backs raptured like garden shovels--
We thought it was a treat to see that something
could be more afraid of the oranging sky than us-- 
I listened for the blue, for the indigo of
August and we all went inside when it started
to sound orange-- buzz orange in our ears--
chased the cats to the corners of the yard
until everything was too loud outside to think--
If it was loud for us I can only imagine
how loud it must have been for them with their
potato chip ears. I know they hate the sound
of orange--
I pressed my hands to the windows of the house--
beat the glass with fists-- watched their paws
run into marrow of the house-- we all stomped on the 
red-smelling floor of the kitchen 
to shake the crawl space. We sat at the kitchen table
and saw them whispering under our feet--
We tried to play red poker and black checkers
while the orange came to pass but everything
looked so loud from there and the cats were
playing prayers-- they found the rats still
sleeping and told them it was better to sleep
through the orange then have to listen.
And I'm sorry I thought myself better than
a feral cat-- 
I hope I'm born again underneath
my kitchen as a feral cat-- I hope short
people with waving hands shoo me away
in blaring orange and the chess
set replaced with garden shovels to dig deeper 
deeper and deeper and deeper until 
we go deep enough that everything only feels
Indigo. I hope the feral cats like the kitchen.
I hope they eat saltines and share with
the rats in their electric chord tails--
sparking blue and indigo--
Keep the poison in the cabinet sealed
away to protect crawl space colonies--
crawled on our knees to fit in the crawl space--
prayed to the rats for forgiveness
and shared saltines before sleep.

SIT LIKE A LADY for Mickey Mouse.

We all grew up hungry.
Fruit-snack fingered. Granola bar mashing.
Goldfish chomping. Pie-crust peeling--
hungry creatures-- who took three
years to learn how to open
kitchen cabinets-- who believed 
that pockets could be a suitable place
to store doughnut holes. Taste-graced Gods  
who knew nothing about how girls order
salads and how girls eat slowly and
how girl don't wipe their hands on
their thighs-- spread wide in a plaid skirt--
SIT LIKE A LADY.
I folded pizza slices like airplanes and
I didn't know I was supposed to be
a girl so I used to brag that I could
eat THREE whole pieces of pizza in one sitting. 
My friend Patrick, curly hair and
cinnamon-bun-cheeked 
said he could eat the WHOLE PIZZA-- but I didn't 
believe him. Boys always say they can eat more--
We all started to learn about
hunger on our knees-- fumbled in the dark
for cabinet handles-- read the back of boxed mixes--
baked cookies without baking soda
just to scrape them off the tray
with a soup spoon. Milk swim with the crumbs--
Stirred macaroni like an iron chef and 
added spices that sounded gourmet like curry
and cumin and coriander.  
Learned about microwaves and the faces 
that marshmallows made inside them.
Learned grilled cheese and tomato soup.
Learned brownie batter and sour dough buns 
and chocolate chip sandwiches.
Learned licking muffin skirts and the bottoms
of bowls of butternut squash soup.
Unlearning food comes faster than the 
dark-kitchen fumbling years of warm 
and knees and blankets and snack-bags--
They only needed to start telling me I was
a girl SIT LIKE A LADY.
FATTY. girl-with-ripped-jean-thighs
TUBBY. girl-with-bare-feet-and-walnut-ankles
FAT. girl-with-cinnamon-raisin-bagels-cream
cream-cheeks-wraps-her-hair-in-Caesar-dressing--
-still-believed-in-garlic-bread-and-pecan-swirls.
Mickey Mouse watched me try to eat a black and
white striped finger cake across the buffet table
in Disney World-- it was full of raspberry jelly
I remember knowing what a calorie was.
I remember how heavy the cake felt and how big his eyes 
were and I remember hating my tongue.
I leanred how to half finish pasta with artichoke hearts
underneath robot dinosaurs. Learned to scoop cups
of cheerios and cut them in half. Learned donuts cut in half.
Apples cut in half. Grilled cheese cut in half
Mickey Mouse was always watching to pick up the 
uneaten pieces I started leaving in the corners 
of plates. Mickey served Gelato.
He roasted sugar-almonds so that every street
smelled like hungry-- He performed at the Hibachi grill
and threw fire in my face to try to roast
my skin like PIZZA cheese. Mickey Mouse could eat
a WHOLE PIZZA-- box and all and wipe raspberry jelly
from his chin and mash granola bars in his gloved 
hands. He laughed because I was a girl-body
and I forgot to cross my legs SIT LIKE A LADY
DON'T lick muffin skirts-- they'll know you
want to kiss girls and cinnamon raisin bagels
SIT LIKE A LADY and unlearn hunger. 
Learn the language of labels-- count the
heads goldfish while Mickey Mouse watches
you unlearn how to eat pizza. 

Hanging over myself like a front door wreath
trying to remember where I left my body.

When I attempt sleep I crouch  
creased beneath my blanket-- 
pirogue boiled and sealed-- glued butter
lips that slip from dough-skin--I wade through
chive-cream and mashed potatoes to find where
I last left my body-- avocado cheeked--
and plum kneed as I come.
Where did I leave the body?
Where did I leave the skin?
Who last put salt and pepper
on my nose and called me dumpling?
Roll over like a cinnamon bun between it's
sisters. Roll over like pumpkins-- lopsided
and drowsy. Roll over like egg rolls 
hugging themselves in sunflower oil--
I blink into the street lamps. Creep from the
sauerkraut follicles strewn out of the edges of
the window-- poured from loose door frames.
My covers are a welcome mat
with HOME written in black letters-- wipe
your canvas shoe grooves here and I'll collect
the leaf skeletons to make them 
into weather-veins-- follow the wind 
up stream where the water turns into
oatmeal all the way up to your knees--
where I left the body, where I left the body
I told them to wait there while I found
sleep coiled and hung on the front door as a wreath.
A crown of holly berries and untimely Christmas
in October when no one even remember snow or
mashed potatoes--
I watched myself walk back inside--
wipe my feet on the welcome mat-- break
leaf skeletons-- I count the time I have
left to sleep on my ribs. As each hour passes
I break off a rib and slide it under
the loose door frame to pick back up
in the morning-- I'll tape each back into place with
butter and cream and boil myself
again while trying to remember where I last
saw my body and if I left the keys
to my rib cage under the welcome mat
or there was ever a key at all-- I'll 
make a new one from the skeletons of
the leaves-- un-hinge myself from the 
grip of the mouths of pirogue pillow creases.
I dream like I'm awake and I lay awake
like I dream. I have a tendency to walk
without my body-- move slow in a river
of oatmeal-- pass raisins and holly berries 
on my way back to the front porch again
where the light spread itself thin in
strands of sauerkraut--
Flip over the welcome mat and see all the
ants that were hiding there-- cover the word
HOME with your canvas shoes and don't wake
up the body-- let it sleep-- let it boil
until we hover over ourselves again--
walk out the front door-- wipe our feet on the way
out-- leave our bodies where we can remember them. 

The Back Door.

We'll leave the back door swung open when
we leave. Drop acorns from our
skirt pockets like buoys in the grass-- landed
between the fireflies floating on their backs
each blowing out the candles 
in their bellies. We bring backpacks
and blankets and a thick metal flashlight
to we pretend we finally stole the moon. 
We walk out up the street like it had a place to 
take us. Like we could end up
anywhere but under a street lamp in Paris
reading each other's poetry to the Seine
only to throw the verse word by word
into the water until all that was left
was our ears. My wives know poetry.
I would ask if any of us knew enough
French to find Picasso or a crème brûlée
ponds to rest our espresso spoons in--
unbuckle our pants and unhindge kissing mouths
of bra-wires in the cream-- we are
smooth dusk that doesn't take our pens.
Together ice each square of the sidewalk
like a gingerbread house-- wipe sugar from
our shoes as we go-- use coffee mugs to 
scoop away the eaten trying to eat
the alleys from out between buildings--
we built this street suspended in the cat's cradle
of phone wires we use to make love--
Not bra-wire love, not Picasso poet love,
We hold up love like picking back up poem words
thrown into the Seine-- spooning feed
each other crème brûlée-- 
cat calling from the sidewalk:
 fat and loud
and short and bird-boned and slut
and whore and prude 
and vixen and harlot and
sex-puppet and floozy and quiet 
and shy and anorexic and emotional
and dyke and faggot 
and everything Picasso found 
to describe a woman body-- 
heard all the way from the the back door
we left wide open.
Our house knows knows our poems--
it waits with
lazy lamp eyes-- awake to make sure we come home.
It knows our wrists and forearms. It knows 
the walls we sink into like shadows 
of women-bodies behind wallpaper.
When I was eleven I was a member 
of Sargent Pepper's Lonely Heart's club band. 
My father cut my hair and taught me
how to use hair gel.
I wore two different colored shoes. 
I wasn't cold in the winter.
I still cut my hair short like Picasso.
I use hair gel. But when boys call me
a dyke I laugh only because they think
it's an insult.
We are the happy sluts.
We are the people who stole the moon--
our back door isn't left open for
you to enter but so that you know
where you never belong--
They should have known I'd have wives.
I'm cold in the winter.
We have blankets. I'd rather
the back door left open.