How do you know this body was once yours
and who can say they own it now?

I've tried to make a home out of my skin
with pocket knives and gnawed nails--
Out of the punishment of bent knees
and the quiet silence of rib-cage jaws
when they chew you quiet like peanuts
or the wet oatmeal with dried apples. 
I've written my skin in sharpies,
black ball point pens, and apologies--
temporary teeth marks on the
wrist of a human who
is eaten each new morning like
a cherry cough drop by the
men who prep each square
centimeter of her flesh for 
surgery-- they all want a piece--
The butcher-- the clever-- the 
cherry cordial heart of a human
who doesn't know how many men
have owned her shoulders--
I've pulled out my own blood
like a rapier but I've only
ever cut my wrists like soup lids--
lazy and congealed my tongue
is the harnessed glory of a
the collection of men who have 
made claims on my clavicles 
and planted flags in my palms
to let me know that my skin has never 
been mine-- and I've had girls write
"love" on my arms like everyone
else but I have always felt like
a tourist to my own torso-- 
"And when did we get so tired
and when did we get so old" I'll 
say when I finally forget
what bananas taste like--but I 
can tell you that I know
there are places that the men
with the flags can't have and have 
not seen-- they will make pot roast
from the chicken-nugget silhouettes
of my thighs but I still have
my cheek bones. They don't know my
cheeks bones because none of them
ever kissed me like you
should kiss a piece of chocolate.  
I still have the stitches you know?
We all have to stitches from incomplete 
surgeries and anorexic acupuncture
When I name the men who own my
skin I don't mean people with
larger hands than mine-- I mean
the fingers that rummage under my 
skin like a strip-search every morning--
like a pick pocket-- like a centipede.
And I know I know I know it was mine 
that once-- that one time this body was
mine and I had no other fingers but
my own and I used to paint my nails
more patient colors like mauve
now I save purple for
the kidney bruises I keep
lodged in my throat. I can tell
you this body was once mine
and I can tell you I'm not the land lord--
this is not a renters game--
I am a border-- the indentured servant
to men with square calculators
who add me up add me up add me up
just to times me by two and divide
me by the square footage of my
femurs-- they have told me rent
is do but I've run out of
new ways to pay them.
Tell them I'll have it soon--
and for now I can offer them
what's left of a box 
of cherry cordials and
the collection of
things I've written above my knees. 

Why did you run and from who?

I ran from my own rib cage
burnt myself like sage-- ran
to put out the fire that it started
in my ankles-- in the brambles 
down by where we used to get
tick bites on our thighs--
my father dressed the parasites in
red nail polish until they died woozy
and drunken like a top-heavy
twelve-year-old who wanted to be 
a firework while also becoming 
the ash. I don't know why I ran--
I ran like the cap of a pill bottle
I ran like a washing machine
and I'd collect the pennies after
the spin cycles--
even if they were all sea foam green
I mean I would keep them like
veal medallions and scallions
in my pockets for a dinner
I never wanted to eat--
I ran, I ran, I know I ran 
from dinner plates-- I only eat from
bowls  now because they
are round the like all the things I
fear and all the things I run from--
I ran like timers for bread that would 
never burn
because the oven wasn't even on--
Charred my knees in the toaster
where I was trying to bake
an apology-- don't worry about me
I know it's an addiction and I know
it's going to be back and I know
it'll put me on the edge
of a forever fall-- I'll die
someday from the bread timer
break me when I'm gone and tell
them that I rose higher than the brambles--
but no-- today I'll run from nothing
but the Jupiter beetles--
I'm still running from a girl
who isn't a girl but
also isn't a loaf of bread or a penny.
She wants to die like a statue
but I want to know her like a firework work--
paint her cheeks in ash and 
tell her she can run her mind like a bread timer
and rest her burnt ankles
in the quiet places left
in my rib cage. 

Did you make jewelry from Jupiter beetles or 
did you eat strawberry cake?

There had been so many weddings 
that July that they ran out of diamonds
and all the ladies in their off-white '
dresses complained to their soon-to-be husbands
in off-black vests that they had
been waiting a long time for something
shiny to make everything worth it.
They had already picked out strawberry 
icing for the cake and they had decided
that orchids were always meant for 
their alter. At night when they 
went to fall asleep they chanted 
in the collective chorus of the cicadas
That everything was "meant to be, meant to be,
meant to be."
One woman who had never loved anyone as much
as she loved the hem of her off-white
wedding dress said to the window
that night, "I do, I do,
I believe in diamonds and I believe in July."
But her fiance didn't hear because
he was catching fire flies
for the center pieces on the tables
because they had run out of candles too
(but that was an account of the bees--
they had left for somewhere else
where people don't think that candles mean
promises).
And so I caught Jupiter beetles and I tied
them to metal bands. I told
everyone the rings were sterling silver when they
were only washers and the twist-ties
off of bags of potato rolls. 
The almost-husbands were so relieved 
that they did not ask what stones they 
were and did not ask how much they cost--
I swiped credit cards between two
slates of granite as if I were actually charging
them something other than promises--
everyone noticed they had the same
stones in their rings but they said
that they had meant to do it-- that
their soon-to-be husbands were "so 
thoughtful" "so wise" "so much brighter
than bees and candles"
And at night the women filled in for the cicadas
and sang, "I do believe in diamonds
and I do believe in strawberries and I do
believe in sterling silver."
But when they finally got to sleep
their husbands were still trying to find
fire flies. The Jupiter beetles
hated the wedding but they waited out
of respect for tradition and I was
there to keep an eye on them-- we 
were partners now. But come August
everything is warmer than July ever seemed
and the fire flies have died-- not from the jars
but from the lack of candles and
the abundance of summer. They hadn't
even gotten to try the strawberry
that sat in the fridge after the ceremonies.
But all the ladies still in off-white
wedding dresses and men still pressed neat
in their off-black vests still put on their
not-sterling rings as if there were still Jupiter
beetles and still something more than potato rolls.
There were no more cicadas left to chant with
the ladies at night when they
began saying, "I do , I do, I do
believe in Jupiter beetles and I do
believe in candles but never
fireflies or promises." 

The taste of the top bunk I no longer sleep on.

Homesickness tastes like zucchini bread for me
or frozen blondies eaten from a folded chair.
It tastes like summer and the watermelon
my father would slice up in the sink
the same way every time.
He saved the rinds for me because I ate
water melon like pizza-- fearless and
drenched to my elbows. 
My mother says that summer tastes like
fresh basil leaves and having too
many of them to do anything with. 
And I reply that summer tastes like porches.
I'm missing a home that exists somewhere
that no longer has an address. I'm homesick
for top bunks and the sticky heat
that came from sleeping there.
There was a whole period of my life
where the bottom bunk was only
for a brother and sleepover boarders. I have always been
a top bunk child-- the kind to check
to make sure monsters hadn't taken refuge
below-- only to find my grandmother
sleeping there on Christmas eve. She smelled
like cigarettes ash and ginger bread
and I held my breath and breathed into my 
lavender pillows.
I converted the top bunk to storage
when I stopped thinking of my bunk bed
like a caravan to my own kingdom--
And the springs in the mattress slumped
and swallowed me heavy like a peach pit--
Sleep left my all together when I discovered
the folds of my hips and the frozen
blondies that hid themselves there--
I pushed my bed
to the wall in an attempt to stop
falling out of birch trees--
There isn't even a pillow on my top bunk 
waiting for me if I were to drive
there. There isn't a blanket. There
isn't the lingering smell of lavender
and I am the monster who sleep on the
bottom bunk--
The room smells like midnight incense and my father's 
bandages.
My top bunk lies today as a graveyard
for holey sweaters and coffee mugs
that I've grown out of-- stacks of notes
from high school literature classes
I could never part with and stuffed animals
who think of themselves as orphans--
The mother they knew of knit hats,
cinnamon raisin bagels and
wide thighs is buried beneath the
sheets there-- her gravestone is
a slice of zucchini bread where
a pillow should be. 

Was I the only one who saw everything was white and
the morning after smelled like Swedish fish?

I washed my burnt hair along with my brains like
sushi rice-- brushed-- scrubbed-- sifted each strain--
Took out my earrings on the dash board that screamed--
I told you I was a wind-up bird
that I uwalked along the creek in a tin-solider
limp-- languid and bleached from chlorine
And I have always smelled it in my hair after the rain--
on my wrists-- wore chlorine like a watch--
check the seconds that it took for the world to stop
screaming and ringing and chiming like a windup bird
I heard I heard I heard you ask if I was a girl
or a boy-- I said I was a wind-up bird and 
that the dashboard still had my earrings
the ones with the eye balls on them--
I had two sets of eyes to see everything like
snow-morning-- like chalk-- like the kind of
heaven that only screams and I told it to please 
stop but it was too late and I was by the stream
and you were on the other side of the street
with a video camera asking me more questions
and I'm sorry I'm sorry that I can't wash it
out of my wrists or my forearms-- burn my 
femurs for kindling please please when you find me 
walking by the creek all mechanical and thoughtless--
you will only hear me on repeat-- an exorcism--
I rid each bone with salt and syrup 
and did I tell you I saw Swedish fish in the
water? They were melting and swimming and 
screaming like white chalk dust-- so that's why the morning
smelled so sweet and nostalgic and utterly broken--
take my bone marrow tokens and barter them for
sleep when I think of the ash in my hair 
In my hair in my hair and it never washes out
like the chlorine that was supposed to make me clean
and my tin soldier knees are wet-- an older me
will eat Swedish fish from a bench in the park
feed some to the wind-up birds.
I heard i heard iheardiheardiheard you scream
and tell me that it was my own throat betraying me 
again-- I never sang very well but this was worse.
Was I the only one who remembered everything was white
or were you there with me? You can lie so I feel better
I like lies sometimes-- lie with me on the asphalt
and tell me it tastes like Swedish fish
and salt-- 
don't ask me because I don't know.

When we broke down on the way to Maine
and decided we never needed anything more
than white lines to rest on.

When you told me to "drive"
I didn't know how far your meant.
I figured that we could get as 
far as Maine before they would stop
us at the border of Cananda. I assumed
they would search
our car because twenty-year-olds
are always hiding something about
socialism-- or maybe it was just the 
oranges we hid in the back seat
in an attempt to smuggle them across the 
to Quebec where we could be
the only citrus farmers there--
we'd brush morning sleet of each fruit
in the patient and shivering dawns of April.
No we didn't make it to Maine.
When you told me "drive"
I knew you didn't mind where we ended up
as long as it wasn't here so
I never thought about the car
catching fire and the whole cabin filling
up with smoke from the air conditoning vents
You shouting from
the back seat "Keep driving keep driving
we're almost there!"
I never got to ask you where you
meant or where you were thinking "there" was.
And so we pulled over and I asked
you if you knew which state it was.
I told you I thought we had been in Georgia
but you said that everything smelled like oranges
and the we had been traveling north so 
we couldn't be in Georgia again. You said
you thought it was Florida but that would
also be the wrong direction.
We settled that we had to be in Vermont
because neither of us knew anything 
about Vermont. I wished we had rescued
the oranges from the back seat
but you said we never needed them. You said
there was so much out there
and we spent the after noon
counting the number of 
golden cars that passed on the high way.
No one stopped to ask about the car
burning next to us or about flag
we had woven from tall grasses by night fall.
We took it down and used it for a blanket.
I asked if you thought we were stranded there--
like an island or a gas station but all you said was that
you had counted twelve gold cars
and that was not all that many.
I worried about you not wanting to leave.
I had wanted to go somewhere and vaguely wanted
to look at the ocean-- but as the decades
past we forgot about the smell of oranges
and learned to make jam and toast from wild berries
that you said looked like Jupiter or Neptune
in the palm of our hands.
We moved on to counting phases of the moon
rather than headlights and the car
burned until it was ashes. We picked out the orange
seeds and grew a tree.
The white lines marked the border between
us and the world that still used addresses.
Yes, we were picked up eventually.
They had seen the orange tree from home
and when they asked where we were going
you told them again "there"
and no one asked where "there" was--
we all knew it smelled like oranges.

The ends off of green beans 
and the spiral galaxy of a Winesap Apple.

You could take the ends off the green beans
Throw them like marbles 
or skipping stones 
or flecks of hail we wanted to pretend
were a snow storm in July--
sent out our Christmas lists
in the eye of the thunder storm.
Toss the lists in with the green been
elbows into the belly of the metal bowl
that my brother used to wear
as a helmet when we were soldiers
on the shore of Okinawa 
or astronauts headed to the milky 
face of Saturn in June.
I will pre-heat the oven for the zucchini
and the Brussels sprouts--
and we'll be too impatient to
let them roast-- burn our fingers
on the edges of pans 
with singed oven mitts
my mother burnt when she used to take
the sun out of the oven each morning--
laid it on a towel  on  the table
so as to let it cool 
the whole day long
while all of us wanted to pull
off pieces like monkey bread.
The sun takes too long to roast
and much too long to cool
like Brussels sprouts and
zucchini all dressed in olive oil
and necklaces of sea salt.
I don't think we ever got
to taste the sun-- we always
burnt our tongues.
You peel the apples. Use the peeler
that cuts them like a spiral galaxy
and twirls their skin like
a ribbon dancer-- juice-wet
pirouettes of their cheeks
above the kitchen floor--
eat the peels or throw them 
out of orbit and into
the green bean bowl-- the green
bean bowl the black whole of 
the hail storm of the vegetables--
we caught the hail and kept
it in the freezer so as to not forget
there was almost a snow storm in July.
We played marbles with the others.
I'll make the pie crust if
you're peeling the Winesap apples--
they aren't the best for pies 
but apples weren't made for summer--
I just always miss them-- I know 
I could use peaches but they
don't dance with ribbons-- we want
an apple pie if there is going to be
a snow storm anyway. 
We were never patient enough for a crust
so we can just roast the rings
of Saturn or Winesap apples next
to the Brussels sprouts and the sun--
they'll be too hot to eat anyway.
We can save the skins and the 
funny ends of green beans that 
resemble elf-caps in the 
big metal bowl if we still
want to remember the summer where
it hailed in July after Saturn
left us her apples in June.

The cold of figs from the freezer box
and laudanum. 

I think I would rather die
from figs than from poison--
Maybe it's because I would 
want to die clutching on to some
sort of symbol so many
other people held onto like
a promise of something eternal.
I know they were like me
and that they were looking for
something like honey-- holding on 
from verandas, leaning on library shelves, or
seated uneasily on a coffee table--
something cold and sweet.
Something quiet. No one wants
to die like Laudanum or Arsenic--
metalic and moaning like a hinge.
The Hebrews called the fig tree
the roots of peace and in the 
wake of Muhammad his followers
sung the fig tree as a "Tree of Heaven"--
"Oh God! If glass shards could take
me there, I could eat a thousand figs,
and be quiet like the gentle
casket of the ice box."
And I know we choose to make suicide
poetic so we can forget about
the glass shard in the figs
or the laudanum in the patient
glass that once held gin and tonic
and thumb prints from
a woman who wanted to write enough
to walk on the waistband of the earth.
I will always wonder what makes us
select our own death when we are instructed
that it is time.
And I want to know how many 
of us think of the end like a brunch menu
or did we always know--
just like the boy with the Hawaiian 
shirts I sat next to in cooking 
class Junior year always knew
he would die from pneumonia
as un poetic as the last dance at 
Homecoming where he leaned against the wall.
And I thought I should ask him
if he wanted to dance--
Would he have preferred the glass
shards and the cold figs or
the corked bottle of laudanum
that perched apprehensively like a priest
on the coffee table, giving last 
rights in haste and skipping
the 'Our Father', hand trembling
to feed him the Eucharist.
I have to say that I have always liked
figs but that I'm scared of them now--
I'm scared of figs and of clear 
glasses that might be full of water--
I'm scared of honey and maple syrup
and all the places that could hold
glass shards-- even the cores of 
Golden Delicious apples.
Just listen to me and don't
take the figs out of the ice box.
They weren't meant for you and
I don't know if they're meant for me--
but leave them there and someone
else will get to them--
We can make honey on the veranda--
lean on me like a book shelf 
and if we fall we can leave
the books on the coffee table
and clean up the glass shards
with a dust pan. 

The promises we make only by nightlights
candles and glow sticks.

There is something about nightlights that
have always made me want to confess my sins--
I usually want to tell the world
I'm sorry each midnight when I stay up
to watch the paper calendar peel
into into a new dark morning like
a scab yanked too soon-- I'm a bloody
marty for the sins I'm not sure are even mine--
we're growning rose bushes on our heads
these days-- I'm just vain enough to make
mine into a crown-- I'm sorry
because there were things I didn't
change and others that I didn't want to--
I'm sorry I'm not sad about being 
the kind of creature who takes penance 
in the form of measuring cups.
I'm sorry about there were people
I didn't tie-shoe laces for 
and other ones who  could only
see me as the fresh jar of clay
who is waiting for the slip to dry--
It might be because I was raised
in a cul-de-sac of candles and white
robes that could make any body
into a roll of paper towels
adorned with charcoal crosses 
made from ash and palms-- charcoal to write
the details of soul-- cracked
like a glow stick over
a bond fire when I told you I only
like to set fire to marshmallows--
I don't have the patience for
anything but fire-- unfold to 
to times I've wiped matches
from the green chalk boards of my forearms--
Oh lord, my mother Mary with 
our lady daughters in candle crowns
made of the dead stars that find themselves
in heaven-- 
I tell you I am dust and to
nightlights I shall return to 
tell my father by my bedside
that I was a dinosaur today at recess--
I wore T-Rex costume and felt too
big to fit under a maple tree
that was bleeding from gypsy mouths.
I tell him I am crying because I'm
so old already-- because I realized
that glow sticks only last one night
and the fireworks they're bathed
by die faster than that-- I'm crying
because I learned to pour
out my confessions each midnight
while starting the list for the next
day underneth my tongue-- 
I know I will promise
to stop saying I'm sorry to more
people than I can count-- I'll break
glow sticks and light candles for
each of them because I know I never
will-- if you don't want my apologies 
that's good because they were never for you
-- I am an apology for the nightlight
who has to wait up with me
and the silk still trying to dry 
on the rim of this jar of clay--
I am audacious to apologize 
for everything I have done and all
the things I have not and if 
you can't wipe off the charcoal in
the morning with me then roast
your marshmallows slow and I'll 
be the fire-sugar and always return
to ash-- I always knew that you'd 
break me like glow stick-- remember
I was blue.

Prank calls to pay phones and 
times no one answered but the Minotaur.

In elementary school a pay phone
was the opening to a tomato sauce
can of urban legends and a suspended
reality that still keeps
me in the back of my closet
looking for lamp posts
or a rendezvous with angels--
the ones the Bible doesn't name.
It's the belief in the in the outside--
the belief in bleeding milk
and a Minotaur that walks in the
hall at midnight-- the sublime that
compels makes me want to walk
alone where there is fog 
in the morning-- I call it my 
own ascension but I never pretend 
to be a saint--

1. I called the payphone
we all knew was on Normal Ave. 
because I saw the number on ruler
from geometry-- I had planned to make
a prank call but not actually planned 
a prank call-- because I just wanted 
the sound of a voice-- I in fourth 
grade and nothing scared me
but I just starting to knew
what ugly meant-- it was like
my thighs and the worn insides
of my jeans.You didn't answer
but I pretended we talked about
boys and how sometimes 
I didn't like sleepovers 
because mornings without showers 
leave you feeling like sin.

2. I called the same payphone.
I learned to put orchids in my hair
and that sometimes I didn't like 
my own ankles. I learned that
cupcakes were greasy and that
telephones always remembered your name.
I called the same payphone
only this time it didn't ring--
it had been disconnected like all
the other veins into oblivion--
we talked about the back of my closet
and babies and blood in purple jeans.
I told you I didn't know what was
wrong with me-- but I knew I liked
orchids and I liked them in my hair.

3. I called you from the payphone
in the lobby of the middle school.
It was disconnected too like the last one
but it still felt good to ask where the helicopters 
were landing because I had become
acutely aware that everyone
would someday be taken away
in a helicopter in handcuffs or
in white veils made of sea foam--
I told you I knew I didn't like
anything about myself anymore
I told you I was ugly and that
you could arrange meetings with
angels but they never showed up for me--
left mist on the windows and told
me to keep faith-- called me
Clare and Catherine-- perspired 
on chocolate milk cartons.

4. I answered and it was you.
The pay phone on Normal Ave
where the wires were frayed and 
only connected to a kind of hope
we only ever found in payphones
and in stories about bleeding milk--
the kind of blood that doesn't stain 
purple jeans and doesn't remind
you how people melt like
campfires and go like fog morning
without calling to say goodbyes
over the payphone line--
And there was no one around but 
the people who read the bulletin 
boards outside the library when you called
so no one believes me that it
was you-- the Minotaur-- 
I had always been so afraid
and whose foot steps reminded me 
of the seams of my jeans--
And I was lucky to at least have
you to tell-- 
we've all needed payphones
to remind us we're 
not alone even when there's
nothing but the Minotaur and
the dial tone
of helicopter blades.