Tuesday, May 20, 2008

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.

Tuesday, May 13, 2008

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.

Sunday, May 4, 2008


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.