Surface

I dive headfirst into the world
without worrying if I will
crack my head against the cement.

let red ribbons leak out,
climb towards the surface.

there are tiny cities in my chest, 

with rosy girls dimming 

their bedroom lights

one by one, 

arms outstretched 

from slender windows,

fingers frigid and white,

reaching out to find the core,

the point of emanation.

in waking dreams,
men in harnesses cling to shingles,
work to demolish a cupola

exposing the ribs of a great bell,
the hull of a boat that scratches the sky.

are there ghosts 

in our future?

are there stones glistening

in our heart-streams?

this is not a poem about longing.

I am done with longing,
says my pink swirling brain
and gnarled lungs.

My heart argues back,
hurling retorts, smashing glasses,
wheezing between its stammering.

do I stop and collect my cracked knuckles?
do I stand as still as a wide-eyed doe on the roadside?

Do I wait for the crash,
or leap back into the underbrush?

12-8-08

it is too difficult to have just one,
each kiss a spark
in and of themselves.

lips in unison.


the heat is off
and yet I am still warm,
bare arms in the cold,

windows too clouded
to see the river

(that I suppose is)
flowing dark and whistling
into this night.


is this what electricity feels like?


like placing a sugar cube
on your tongue,

waiting for the volts
to hit your veins,
make them dance?



we are an entanglement
in the heart of an apple,

nestled in seed-stars,
wound in the white.

She’s Like the Canary in the Coal Mine for All of Us

breath drawn back into perfect circles,
circumference of heart and beating wings,
we can survive in this black.

who decided to crawl down into these depths,
these places where songs
trip and tumble to the center of it all?

clenched jaws in sleep,
thighs tight under covers,
sleep is scuffed shoes,
things you meant to pack but didn’t.

we all need some saving grace,
a glint of a future that hums like harmonicas.


we have lungs,
so we use them to make blossoms,
to pass our breath into another rosy mouth.

Of Root Canals and Stalled Poems

..like so much perfume in your mouth
a flurry of chalky moths fluttering in a small space.

my nerves are rattlesnakes and tooth-smoke.

there’s nothing worse than a poem,

hurtling into your ear, mid-written,

as you recline in the dentist’s chair,

a room full of licorice and

fingers empty of a pen.

wings huddled in china,
cupped between trembling hands.


     my tongue is a silken building in the middle of
      momentary hailstorms, star-showers.

Ricochet

We ricochet. Come back to this blue where we began,
our oars poised to crack the water’s surface. is this where
the humming started? Where our overstuffed hearts, crammed
into Buicks and planes, converged in Pittsburgh, a city of even
more convergence? Happy is as happy does and I’ve stopped worrying
for the time being. Being is what I want & need & I will fuel our
upcomings with full lungs and a song-heart. Forever means for always, evermore, for ever and ever, for good, for all time, until the end of time, until hell freezes over, eternally, forevermore, perpetually. This.

8-6-08

the outside is dark and it is early. dark on my insides, my hands.
the cats are climbing steadily, stealthily, into places they do not fit.
put paw down, retract, find a bell and shake it.

we are loungers this evening, stuck between a fire station
and a hospital, & there’s no absence of sirens in our lives.

a perpetual waiting for you to come home, hoping your bones and thighs
will still vibrate with the clang of the drums, the ring of metal encased in sound.

pressed face to glass, I think about heading down many flights of stairs
to the liquor store, buying a bottle of wine, showing you my purple teeth
when you get home. you will kiss me anyways.

Route 8, Pennsylvania (revised 6-4)

My sister sits behind the wheel of Betty,
our yacht, our silver Buick
and memories seep out of us like golden sap.


Remember how Dad used to burn
the webs of gypsy moths with his lighter?

With ribbons tied around their trunks,
trees were selected for cutting.

We made the sign of the cross as we watched the flame.


Remember how he set us on the backs
of horses that didn’t belong to us?

Our little legs felt the tickle of coarse hair
as mom stood behind the fence,

crooning Rhinestone Cowboy,
recalling her own Appaloosa pony.


Remember how we thought
I’d never be able to drive?

I’m quiet in the passenger seat.
No need to mention the fainting,
the unconscious stretches of silence.
All that blood to test, to fill up tiny tubes.


We miss our exit on the highway,
wind into the terrain with rivers
like open incisions between the hillsides.

I glance over as you run your fingers
over your scar, healed just above your heart.

This City (revised 6-1)

flips me upside down
shakes my ankles with rough hands

instead of loose change
I’m full of antique pearl buttons
red thread, and ticket stubs
for movies I haven’t seen


right-side-up and red-faced
I smooth my skirt against my thighs



I want to drift back
to the white of what’s left
the white where I began

and close the space around me
like petals in reverse

Sweet Season

who are we in this berry territory,
this forest meant for fur and eyes
that shine like marbles in the sun?

this sweet season yields melons,
syrup and sap, all of which
make sticky hands, sugary regrets.

the sun overhead rips my world into
skinny wisps of silk and burlap,
and weaves them into my hair.


if you could see me now, coated in light,
in the rainbows of oil spills,

I would kiss you as if cherries
grew in soft bundles in our fields,

as if tart meant something else.

Don't Sorry, Be Sappy

I was caught in the pantry
eating roses straight
out of the can.

I believe in those winged purposes.

He says my lips are like petals,
so now I can show him the
tumble of pink, the fluttering
of things behind teeth

as I open my mouth to say Hello,
how are you? I made your simile true.

Our world feels like pulling suspenders
away from our lungs and breathing
in the orange light of certain subway trains.

Each day is an armchair
and the stuffing tumbles out the back.

kittens crawl inside, fill the space
with purrs and heartbeats.

Teeth Dreams

Here on the third floor,
the wind shakes the couch,
my teacups rattle in their sleepy saucers.

The taste of tooth-smoke still whisps
through my gaps. My cheek continues
its lonely swell that muddles my speech.


How can there be so much dark
inside these tiny pebbles of teeth?

Clenched in my sleep, they crumble
under dream-pressure, lean on each other
until my pink gums let go,

untwine fingers from holding hands,
and I awaken with the hard truth
of a round tooth-moon
to throw into the sky,

and the heat of unformed, unsaid words
buried in my pink gums.

Light

I hold my breath in these quiet times
of no garbage men, can collectors, and
girls with whooping coughs.

I have stopped growing, like a
moon and stars watermelon,
root vegetables in this dry season.

In other words, I have stepped outside myself.

I peel my fingernails like tiny oranges
on the subway, litter the floor with milky crescents.
This is what they call an automatic response to stress.


Once I arrive home,
a pink hand with wide fingers
blocks my view of the sun.

I lie, naked back to carpet,
peer around joints to see light.

Boston Spring

In Boston, spring is sudden,
like a twist of gin, or an evening storm,
sliding out of the dark like an oil spill.

It’s a snail with the sun in its shell,
galloping along like a mint pony.



Heart-shaped graffiti appears between
morning and evening commutes,

steady as a song, staccato as a bobby pin
falling to the tub as I soap up my hair
on these bright bird-mornings.



It’s as soft as two eggs, over easy,
with butter sliding down the slopes of toast,

turning into a fat pool of yellow,
catching the light in its diameter.

Remember

1.
Memories seep out of us like golden sap
as my sister sits behind the wheel of Betty,
our yacht, our silver Buick.

2.
Remember how Dad used to burn
the webs of gypsy moths with his lighter?

With ribbons tied around their trunks,
we knew which trees were selected for cutting.

We made the sign of the cross as we watched the flame.

3.
Remember how he set us on the backs
of horses that didn’t belong to us?

Our little legs felt the tickle of coarse hair
as we wished for Appaloosa ponies of our own,
remembering mom’s polaroids of her pet.

4.
Remember how we thought
I’d never be able to drive?

I’m quiet in the passenger seat.
There’s no need to mention the fainting,
the unconcious stretches of silence,
all that blood to test, to fill up tiny tubes.

5.
We miss our exit on the highway,
wind into the Pennsylvania terrain
with rivers like open incisions
between the hillsides.

I glance over as you run your fingers
over your scar, healed just above your heart.

this city.

this world flips me upside down,
shakes my ankles with rough hands.

instead of loose change,
I’m full of antique pearl buttons,
red thread, and ticket stubs
for movies I haven’t seen.

I smooth my skirt against my thighs,
right-side-up and red-faced

and want to drift back, slowly,
to the white of what’s left,
the white where it began.



at night, I crawl into bed,
closing the space around me
with blankets-- like petals in reverse.

sometimes all the people are just too much,

a quilt slipping over me
when it’s already too hot to sleep.

ideas.

I've been writing pages of my idea for my next book, which I hope to be a college memoir in poetry & lyric essay. This is the beginning.
_______________________________________________

neptune's lips taste like fermented wine
and we've got peppermint schnapps bottles up
to our swollen lips, our freckled faces.

curled under hi-rise beds,
entwined like so many fingers in your hair.

leap into October lake,
slip corduroy pants over slick legs,
no towels packed in backpacks.

it's windows down, radio turned up
after two eggs sunny side up, rye toast
and the endless expanse of grapes on vines
ready to become $7 tastings of ice wine
in the dead of New York winter.

we spend days on the roof, climbing out attic windows,
sitting cross-legged on mighty downward slopes and
stare into the windows of the Dean's house,
wonder if she sees us over her breakfast, lunch, dinner.

two mattresses make a bed, tucked in
low-ceilinged corners of our attic--next to easel,
we're smudged with charcoal, feel the soft burn
of carpet on our backs, pretend like we don't notice.

I hold my toothbrush in my hand and rock
back and forth in the snow.

My fingernails leave indentations in my skin.

I place green bottles on windowsills of white-light
and they make spring appear in my bed,
on my white stomach.

I learn out of windows, take pictures of my freckles,
dyed black hair against the nape of my neck--
try to make myself feel pretty.

We hide the liquor above washer and dryer,
forget about laundry.

I lug home bags of tattered costumes
from the theater, wish my frame fit into
the cylinders of such intricate boning,
minuscule ribcages.

We hang pinatas in our front trees,
smoke cloves from our porch, watch
enticing tight jeans walk by
over our morning coffee.

I wear skirts to ride my bicycle,
lose breaks in the humid morning air,
coast down hills to safety, to identify
mica and fool's gold in class.

We go to the theater, lie on our backs
in the darkness, learn that the ghost light
does not keep any spirits away.

We accidentally spray ourselves in the face
with pepperspray, searching for
the white buds of wisdom teeth.

I stand in the rain and cry when
he tells me I sound too much like Ethel Merman.

He wraps me a love letter out of boxer shorts
and duct tape, attaches it to my door as I sleep,
a borrowed copy of Amelie nestled in the inside.

I dress as Annie Oakley, walk across campus
with a theatrical clicking rifle. I dress as
the Unsinkable Molly Brown and am showered
with honks from passing cars.

Tim and I sleep in Laura's bed, under her
beautiful quilt from Vietnam. In the morning,
my face is dyed a highlighter yellow and
streetlight green.

Scars gained from:
- falling down the hill
on the first day of class
- pumpkin carving knife
- bench fall & flight in Lincoln Center
- dirty London dancefloor

Into the Day

hanging on by threads, by cloud filament,
I wake and have no desire to go forth into the day.

the backs of my knees ache
for something to wake me up,
pinch my heart back into the way it used to be.

we sing of things like love and lust
and sometimes hope, and the songs are
batted into deep corners under our bed
by an unruly kitten.

this is the way things are supposed to feel, he says.

perhaps it was watching Misery as a child
that made me expect the worst out of those
who come to you with kind hands


I dodge between cars seated at red lights,
hope they don’t suddenly lurch and send bones crashing.

I taunt death with kneecaps, mittened hands,
pills packed in my purse.