i want to write a poem
that can swallow lightning and wind
and crush all that power into a single bright seed
to plant in the wet ground between us

i want to write a poem
that will flourish like rome
that will rust like bronze
and rise each morning with the russet sun
a poem that will be its own colosseum
each word a lion; your heart a gladiator

i want to write a poem
that will weave music into silence:
a love song, a requiem, a lament,
a death knell, an exaltation

i want to write a poem
that is soft and sharp--
to build you a nest of letters
with fragments of string and bits of daybreak:
a new shelter that can never replace the old

i want to write a poem
that will cover you
a blanket woven of whispers
of all the secrets i've spoken only to the wind

i want to write a poem
but i cannot be fluent
in a language that does not exist
and science has no term
for the cosmic force of my need

and how can i write a poem
when my lips and breath and mind,
my knuckles and gasps and eyes,
my fingers and knees and dreams--
cannot grasp your existence?

so long ago it seems infinite:
heavy velvet, dark wine,
our crest on the wooden walls
in autumn splendor,
the gasp of midnight
and the vacuum of shadow,
a void in which only stars exist.

we became raw in that sacred space,
madoc and zyll, adam and eve,
souls and bones and flesh and breath,
a prayer in the closeness of our lips
to the omnipotence of reckless abandon--

we were god and goddess,
angels, mystics,

and though you have gone

we burn on,
we breathe and become,
breathe and become,
beacons in the blackest of skies,
little flames in the swallow of night.

I want eyes that
cut like a fjord; I want sharp
geography, mountain-peak cheekbones,
I want God's calligraphy, two thick eyebrows,
shadowed sky-soot,
I want lunar eyelashes
tuned to the singing of the moon.

I want fingers
that shimmer like the aurora borealis,
I want to be your palace on fire-- I want
to vanish into the storm at your core,
the whirlwind blizzard of
thousands of cold caresses.

I want lips like glaciers--
like campfires, lips that chill doubt,
that burn my resolve,
that etch hymns into my bones;
I want a voice like a gray wolf,
a growl to tremble my blood,
a low song of protection.

I want a room: a vault of ice,
a glass-topped pod beneath a canopy of stars,
a wood-walled retreat embraced by trees,
with your wave-sharp eyes, your
sky-mountain bones, your celestial
fingers, your fire-bright lips, your--

I want things
I never thought
I'd want
from you.

surrounding us: a billion stars
in a time when a trip to mars is like walking around the block
and captain kirk and mister spock are arguing
about the prime directive.

we’re beaming to a planet’s surface. now listen:
i know about inverse tachyon beams
i know about coded klingon screams
i know about going to warp factor eight
i know about redshirts' survival rate.
(no. chance.)

i’m beaming down with the main crew
to the surface of minerva II
we've got a malfunctioning interstellar transceiver which is distressing-- dysgraphing? dismantling…
…i don't know.
scotty said it was defective.

so we’re on this planet,
standing on one side of a thick forest packed with monster janeks,
starfleet says we need to fix this thing yesterday, and we’re in a panic—
and **** it, mccoy is a doctor, not a lumberjack,
and kirk says we should just burn through the middle with phasers,
and spock says we must preserve respect for all life forms no matter the situation.

now please remember kirk’s the captain.
that means he runs this show
but kirk always listens to spock,
so
we spend two days walking through the forest.

surrounding us: a billion trees
in a place where a strange disease is rare as feathers in a flock
and captain kirk and mister spock are arguing
about the prime directive.

halfway through this dark-lit trip
things go wrong (obviously)
and an alien with shellac for skin captures the captain.
said alien grabs a vine, ascends into the canopy of the trees,
and for one glorious moment
i believe kirk’s the dead guy in this episode, not me!

but spock, in his calm and logical vulcan voice,
orders us to exercise any necessary force to recover the captain.
translation: **** EVERYTHING. JUST GET KIRK BACK.

we reach the janek village.
being a good redshirt, i rush in, phaser blasting, ready to complete the heroic rescue of our captain—
and get killed instantly.

as i was dying, i heard the sound of thousands of janeks dying beside me
saw spock help kirk off the ground
and the last words I heard were theirs:
“captain, are you in need of immediate medical attention?”
“nah, spock, i’m fine—”
“mr. scott. the captain is hurt. beam us aboard immediately.”
one’s arm over the other’s shoulders,
they vanished.

surrounding them: a billion stars
in a time when a trip to mars is like walking around the block
and captain kirk and mister spock are arguing
about the prime directive—

but the prime directive
was never the real objective.

depression and anxiety? my students get a break.
the teacher with disorders, though, gets more than she can take.
frustration's running high, 'cause i've got thousands of demands;
but criticize the system, and i'll get a reprimand.

“meet them where they’re learning,” but standardize the tests.
“every child is different,” but graded like the rest.
“no child left behind,” in a class of thirty-three.
we’re “racing to the top;” if we lose, it’s all on me.

differentiation; meeting high and low.
always being proper... everywhere i go.
scheduled 'til 3:30; stay at work 'til eight.
try to teach with love; i'm often met with hate.

meetings, staffings, lesson plans,
trainings, weekends, lending hands
both to kids and to the staff
time for leisure? that’s a laugh

some kids cheat; some don't care.
read a book? "that's not fair!"
my one plea: follow rules.
“i don’t care. it’s just school.”

we are people just like you
we’ve got stress and feelings too
only so much we can take
‘till our minds begin to break

more excuses, several lies
so much stress i start to cry
“suicidal! fix me now!”
don’t have training; don’t know how

fifty things i have to do
never go to sleep ‘til 2
overwhelmed and breathing fast
i can’t handle—i won’t last—

i cannot relax
the panic attacks
my sanity’s gone
the class must go on

they’ve never heard
these unsaid words
my eyes are clouds
they’re all so loud

patience gone
raging on:
“maybe this
isn’t bliss”

dead brain
joy drained
must run
i’m done

this morning, i could not get one breath in edgewise
as she stuck her nose in the air and told me condescendingly
how parroted prayer and mass-market worship got her closer to god

and i had to clench my teeth
to refrain from telling her
i prefer the nine inch nails version of
that.

he was beautiful,
but not in the ways we covet so often.

he did not have hair i could run my fingers through
or soft skin to touch;
his eyes sat deep under a too-thick brow,
his hair was a tangled mess,
and his face was rough as concrete.
he was not outgoing and eloquent,
nor was he cultured—

but he was beautiful
in the way a whisper threads through air
in the way a spider dances
in the way one stands among ruins
and breathes softer,
in awe of the quiet power of the place,
as if a gasp would shatter the stones

he was beautiful
like the red flush of shame,
in the way rough terrain tells more intimate stories
than a smooth road,
in the way thunderstorms are
a thousand times more glorious
than the sunshine,
in the way the hoarseness in your throat
is triumphant after losing your voice
to screams of joy

...he was beautiful because his was
a purposeful ugliness

he was beautiful
because he tried so hard not to be

I regret
that I cannot write this
poem
because
I'm bleeding out at the shoulder
and I'm not left-handed-- I can't
write this poem
because I'm short-
circuiting and
stunned. I
can't write
this
poem because
there are no words
for this thing
I never thought I'd
fall victim to--

   the pen in my hand
   feels like a gun and
   I'm going to shoot this page to ****--

this ******-up therapy,

dear Poetry, I QUIT--

because
there's not enough
blood
left to fill my
pen

six years after you took your last breath
i now understand what you meant:

to have dis-
jointed thoughts, runningrunningrunning brain always running no time
to
breathe no space
do this-that-this-that
no breathing
how do i exhale(all i'm doing-- inhaling inhaling--)
brain fills lungs fill
which where what when
what happened two hours ago what day is
it when did you get here what have
i said what did you say?

palms fists in eye sockets
dark static dancing dancing
caffeine fired caffeine wired
no sleep
can't sleep
time to sleep?
never sleep

i remember:
that your pills weren't yours
that you cried for help
that you needed sleep to swallow you

that i closed my eyes while you died on your kitchen floor
and it eats me up

and it's only fair, then,
for me to have inherited your curse

Veil me at dusk with a curtain of stars;
I want to live with the tenderness of war,
the blood-stained heartbeat
of gunpowder and sedition,
the hollow soul, the stolen bones,
the mute stare of seclusion.

Ankle-deep in mud,
forced to face each other,
we give few words to the thick air.
Few were ever needed.

Your fingers are cold and hard as ice.

Inside your ribcage dwells a colony of skeletons,
dusty and sanguine, broken and sharp,
building houses for the ghosts
of all the men you've killed.
I can hear them in the dead of night,
arid voices whispering "welcome home."

Veil me at dusk with a curtain of stars;
I want to live with your demons.

i knew nothing but solitude--
and then the snow fell.

from behind the windowpane, they entranced me:
twirling on the wind, innocent and delicate,
yet sharp as a star.

then, a raven, jet black, prey in his beak,
landed just outside; in the endless sea of white,
he began to **** the creature on the snow,
a scarlet slaughter.

transfixed, i went into the storm.

blood on my lips, raven wings on my back,
snow in my veins,

i let winter swallow me whole.

I.

pink satin masks
blood and broken toes.
i keep effortless poise
while knees and lungs shake.

i dance in tattered tutus,
in old toe shoes,
for a pocketful of coins;

i dance until i am blind with joy,
until my lungs are full of trumpet shouts,
until i am exhausted and weightless,

until my audience is standing,
breath gone, knowing what it is to be--

II.

in the storm of applause
one gnarled hand launches a torch.

"you danced with me," i cry--
her lips seal shut.
wild, cold eyes watch
flames singe my feathers,
fuse flesh to bone,
floorboards collapse.

she stays until she hears
my heart stop.

at dusk,
the stage is ash.

III.

at dawn,
a chorus of mouths emerge from the ground,
my audience, full-throated, white-knuckled,
tchaikovsky hollowing cheeks,
nasoprotivnyia daruia;
knuckles white--

flat-footed, slack-jawed,
the arsonist stands--

and i ascend from the dirt
on pillars of diamond forged from ash,
while my bare feet spill blood and i say
look at the source of my strength--
while new wings spread,
blood-red and gilded and brilliant in the sun--
while fire sprouts like flowers from my palms,
while spiders wrap my toes in silk
and i dance on thick-tongued harmonies
that tremble the earth with new roots
and i bourrée across the green trunks

and i become the sun

for c., in retrospect.

I.

I curl my toes into the dark
and fold my body until it is shut.

You, soft-eyed and apologetic,
my quiet fire, my nameless love,
you want to open yourself up
and ignite, want to burn ourselves
until we are consumed by flames--

but my skin has turned to brick.

II.

You have given me light--
light to sink my teeth into,
to drive fast with, to dive into
deep water, light to grab and hold
and keep within me, light to
blind me, to guide me, to melt me,
light to seize with my hands
and swallow and whisper to--
you are mine.*

III.

Our expiration date hangs like a scythe,
like the sharp claws of God,
like a knife, waiting to chop the wick from this candle
and turn my nights to ash.

I cannot
steel my heart
shut my mouth
cease to care

I cannot
turn my back
close my eyes
build a wall

I am lost--
should I leave
what I love?

I.

She is held by long arms of vines,
belted by dark flowers:
a living column surrounded by broken maples,
shadowed willows,
and daisies of ink.

She is still as stone
and whispers like rain,
soft and wet syllables beneath gray skies.
Many creatures hear the noise;
few listen to the words.

Help, she cries.

II.

They come, at last,
to save the forest.

But she still stands,
toes rooted deep in the dirt,
her bark unmarred,

and they cannot see
the rot within.

two feet on concrete
planted like cactus
needling—
     “please don’t let them **** your baby
     hell awaits you, young lady”

look at me, *****.
is my belly a moon?
is there life in my womb?
no—my body’s a tomb.

god killed my children.
he slaughtered my daughters,
he plundered my sons;
i wonder what water
my wine has become?

you hit the street
with statistics on heartbeats
while dead eggs and the dregs of unformed arms and legs
rot in my core.

hey, lady—
i wonder what special hell
god’s destined for.

you're the one with the psychology degree:
yet you refuse, stubbornly, to get any sort of counseling.
we cannot help you.
god cannot help you.
you are broken and you will not fix yourself.

you need to face reality:
your husband is dead
your son married a jew
one daughter is an addict,
driven to drugs because of you.
your family is splintered
because you tried so hard
to force them to be your perfect ideal.


but today is the end.
today we say "no more."

today, we turn our backs on toxicity
for good.

and i will not take another ativan because of you,
and i will not lose another night's sleep because of you,
and i will not eat another box of chocolate because of you.

i will not be civil to you again.
i will not apologize to you again.

and i will not
see you
ever
again.

I.

this room tastes like a storm on the sea:
salt crashes in waves
against the soft shore of my lips,
hot like thunder, hard as hail.

drenched, desperate, drowning,
fingers palm-deep in wet earth,
you infuse my blood with lightning,
fill my lungs with water,
pull me under--

a death knell floods our ears,
a furious cradle of waves;
our eyes shut, lashes silvered with rain,
mouths crushed, sharing one last breath,
electricity still humming at my core,
our bodies making
last promises

II.

the current lifts us to the surface;
we clasp each other and pray to the old gods
ignite us, belyse oss, strike us, ignite--

the sky yellows over us
and we taste petroleum on our tongues
and we dig in with fingers and limbs
we absorb each other, we hold--

your eyes are blue as the water
when the wind rips you from me--

ignite us ignite us

lightning breaks the tempest--

bathed in gasoline, we become
two flames in the sea,
inextinguishable.

divine assassin--
bury your benevolence
and take root in me

she's got a gold gold cup of poison
all these words waterfalling from her mouth
she wants to anoint me, sister
she wants to make me one of hers

i'm a little rodent,
she says, she says
running, piercing my feet
on a star of david wheel

jesus gotta save me
heavenly father gonna save me

and i told you i don't believe in that man
no divinity
no star of bethlehem


there's one God for me, lady,
one God,
Adonai's my salvation
he blesses me just fine
don't need no holy son, lady,
Adonai's just fine

and i ain't gonna drink your sacrament water
there's no cross for me

Adonai's my salvation
Adonai's just fine

i need it: the concrete floors
that send electricity through the soles of my shoes,
the ascent up stairs, cold metal under my palm
as lana sings to me and i give her my own words in return
and the pillars of my past rise up before me.
i need the now-familiar halls, the gleam of wood and glass
appropriately placed. i need the embrace of cold air,
heavy with home smells: vulcanized rubber, sweat,
fresh ice. i need my wall, my stairs, my home address: 112, 3, 12.
i need my family, related by blood and ice, by joy and frustration,
by elation and tears. i need the ceiling off its trusses,
the pitch black, the red lights, the resounding bass,
the cold and reverent silence as the bulbs sizzle back to life--
the opening face-off, teeth gritted, fists closed.
i need the smack of sticks against ice,
pucks stinging red pipes, blades scraping up snow,
the crunch of the boards, the red light and the deafening horn,
six thousand people erupting in screams, one entity,
every hand pointed to one end of the rink. i need the urge to
bite my nails, an adrenaline rush, i need to clock-watch,
i need to ***** and laugh and yell and grin, i need to
collapse and breathe when the buzzer sounds, three more points,
closer to the penrose, closer to the ncaa's--
i need hockey.
i need home.

1-- Legacy

This city was my ancestors' town.
We have laid tar on your horse-paths-
a university grew from Riverview roots-
you chopped firewood from the
great-great grandfathers
of these trees.

#2-- saint cloud sounds like

midnight, shoemaker: haunted cries.
munsinger's melody: scurries & chirps.
when TNT shatters granite at the quarry.
pucks' percussion at the brooks center.
buzz of summers on lake george's shore.
somalia & scandinavia, singing.

your parents were right
when they said not to make friends online
because it's dangerous.

don't make friends online
because while your almost-brother
can't sleep for the 159th night in a row
your arm can't reach across half the country
to grab the sleeping pills out of his hand.

you won't even have money to fly to the funeral.

and you'll blame yourself
for the rest of your ******* life
for not being awake with him.

don't make friends online
because your life turns into numbers:
$642 for a plane ticket,
4 states away,
20 hours behind the wheel.

don't make friends online
because you'll fall in love with her
and you'll never touch her.

don't make friends online
because when she has a panic attack,
california is hours away
and you can't bring her tea
and count 1-2-3 to help her breathe
and hold her while she cries.

don't make friends online
because you'll constantly live in fear
that it'll happen again, but on purpose this time,
that she'll give up on life
and you'll have two souls pulling on your shoulders
and you'll cry yourself to sleep
with the same mantra pounding at your skull
i should have been there

so listen up kids
it's dangerous

I remember the cinnamon pancakes that night,
when the stars hid their faces and wept for our plight,
they were crossed like two roads, like two guardians sent
to stand watch at the start, knowing how it would end.

I remember the promises-- "only one time--"
but you spoke Norwegian and I called you mine,
you soldered your fingers to my silvered waist,
I melted my metal to settle your taste.

I remember my hand on the small of your back,
you were hot like a tommy gun after attack,
all your bullets broke bones, non-ascetic assault,
but I pulled the trigger-- these wounds are my fault--

I remember your hair, glowing flame in the dark,
a beacon on nights that we snuck through the park,
I remember dead grass and cold dirt on our knees,
and the whisper of stars, and the cradle of trees,

I remember the nights that I slept in your bed,
when I should have been home, you were in me instead,
I remember the snow that seeped into my bones
on the Fridays I knew you were sleeping alone,

I remember your skin as my skeleton curved,
as it shaped to your bones, to the body it served,
I remember the leatherbound Bible you'd shun
while shouting your praises for God and his Son,

I remember contentedness, drifting to sleep,
I remember the red drink umbrellas we'd keep,
I remember your words to me: sinner's love psalms,
I remember my cheek in the cup of your palm,

I remember the makeup I left in your room,
I remember the season that ended too soon,
I remember the first time I dreaded the fall,
I remember the terror of losing it all,

I remember the way that I felt when you left
I remember that we said "it's all for the best,"
I remember the way your name filled up my chest,
I remember your necklace, a noose on my neck;

I remember its weight; I'm still wearing it, too--
I remember I wear it to remember you.

today, in a public restroom,
i give birth

to the only fruit
my womb will ever produce:
a sanguine child, shredded and torn,
shapeless and faceless and lifeless.

the thick black ink of "god's plan"
mocks me from between my own thighs.
i stare blankly at the gray doors
as i hear the cries of the child
whose diaper is being changed outside.
i wonder: is she a good mother?
will that child grow up with bruises,
on his heart, on his face?

i am told, time after time,
to trust god, benevolent god,
and i can only grit my teeth--

for god so loved this child
that he forbade me to have my own.

in a whirlwind of fire and leather,
you burn like the sun
and leave blood in your wake.

the way you fight is like good poetry,
sharp and smooth and meant to be savored.

and if a fist to the face
made you want me
i'd take ten.

city lights peep through the blinds,
voyeuristic result of our impatience,
blinking at two bodies in a room
awake, alive, on fire
while the world sleeps around us.

years ago, my hand touched your back
for just seconds, and it burned for days.

this time, i feel it outside and in,
flames licking my spine, curling
around my thighs, reaching up and up and
--smoke thick on my lips, filling my mouth,
alarms screaming on the cellular level,
no truck coming to extinguish them.

you echo in my nose,
alcohol and salt, sandalwood and sweat,
like you were made of earth and vice,
like you came to anchor me to a night
i thought would only happen in dreams.

the sun finally peeks over the lowest buildings
and we are spent; my arm around you,
you fall asleep immediately.

and there in the sunrise,
each time my eyes open-- it's hair on fire,
a sea of freckles on your shoulders,
and i grin into my pillow
heady with the universe's whisper:
*"dreams do come true, darling."

I doubt anyone knows
that my calloused fingers
are raw in their translucence
beneath the scars;

that the pomegranate and magnolia you wear
are in my veins like my very blood;

that your pulse was all that remained
when they stripped the rest of me away,

and that the melting point of steel
is 98.6 degrees.

it’s 12:30 a.m. again and
dull disembodied teeth surface again and
they gnaw and they tear at my stomach again and
again I don’t want to sleep

it’s 12:30 a.m. again and
a possible hospital stay tempts me again and
it’d hurt but i’d get to leave work again and
again all i feel is weak

it’s 12:30 a.m. again and
i’ll pray that someday i’ll love teaching again and
i’ll sweat a sea into my bed again and
again it’s depression, not heat

it’s 12:30 a.m. again and
i taste tears and homesickness rising again and
i curse god for bigots and ******* again and
again I concede defeat

ian anderson wears my father's face,
my small hands in his work-worn palms
as he sings to me: war-child,
dance the days and nights away...

LATER.

my home is barefoot wandering baker street
in the dirt-path days before arthur conan doyle,
rabbits running in the gutter,
arms full of tea-cups,

praying to the gods of war
at the chapel of the bright city mile
on a dusty sunday afternoon--

and every song is home:
like the inside of a tavern,
yellow candlelight dancing across the wooden walls.
i see falstaff, ruddy-faced and drunk in the corner,
roland, passed out with a cup in hand,
my father, the minstrel in the gallery,
smile on his face, piping out a tune.

it is because of him i am a valkyrie, a war-child.
it is by his virtue that i brandish a sword,
that i stand at attention, that my back is unbroken,
that i give no armistice--
and he taught me how
(though it seems inconsequential)
to play solitaire.

OF COURSE.

and while the horses wander the hillside,
while i become the poet and unsheath my pen,
while i join the stage and leave the audience,

i know-- always--
i can follow the flute home.

YOU ARE the mushroom clouds beneath my flesh,
shaking my skin with every explosion;
dropping your bombs through revealing emotion
your fission to my fusion / blurred vision and collusion,
you're bright like destruction, it's fatal seduction,
eclipsing existence, to hell with armistice,
come shock my shell come **** my quell
come make me ring that warning bell
come raid my air
come slay my care
come rip
a*part
mY
HOSTILE
PRAYER

Righteous Isis,
priceless queen, rife with green
vines winding between her lungs,
around her tongue, crowned with beams
of the ancient sun, power of Ra
beneath her thumb, life-giving wife,
wild child of reptiles, pride of the Nile--

righteous Isis,
she who gives birth to heaven and earth,
sovereign sorceress, steward of words,
my ancestress, blessed with flesh, this
bright protectress, next to death with
theft of her name, maimed by insane fanatics
grasping semi-automatics aimed at

righteous Isis,
spliced into terrorist crisis
situations, sacred name on a
radical federation, used for devastation,
appropriation of my divine mother,
brothers-in-arms killing the culture
of their own nations, of past generations, of

righteous Isis,
torn from her temple by
scorned fundamentalists,
prayers to her used to take
insurgent censuses
now when i bow to my goddess,
my empress, the powers suspect I'm a member of

rightist ISIS,
who crosses off competition
with crucifixion,
lays foundations for jurisdiction
with immolation, with detonation,
decapitation of journalists, their
murderous fists taking nations,

rightist ISIS,
whose power rests on the shoulders of dread,
men obsessed with erasing the names
of every goddess we hold close, of every man
who knows Mohammed did not preach death,
of every Buddhist, every Jew, every pagan, every Hindu,
choking the breath from those who don’t believe what they do--

rightist ISIS,
you think you own the sun but not this one,
not this pristine queen who tears the thunder from the skies,
and she will strike you down with pestilent blight
she'll smite you with a blistering light,
she'll drown you and ignite the tide,
and you will die with the second rise of

righteous Isis,
whose hand rocked the cradle of civilization,
whose shrines make the sacral heart of nations,
whose each breath gives divine illumination,
who shakes off the wasted shame
and patiently waits as we chant her names--
all ten thousand in glorification.

To sleep, to dream: both goals I cannot seek,
While columns built of flame attend my bed;
They dance like alfer, singing 'til I'm weak,
Could **** me-- but devour me instead.

Your fingers strike like matches on my skin,
My blood the only fuel you'll ever need--
We'll stoke the flames with gasoline and gin
'Til Hypnos drops his poppies and concedes.

Hold fast to me and cast away repose
We'll torch the night with breath and whispered fire;
Too tenuous are dreams and, like Zyll's rose,
They'll burn upon a fragrant funeral pyre.

And as our veins combust, we cast off rest,
Both cradled by the sweet inferno's breast.

The clouds enshroud my night in blackened cold
I'm stretched from tundra to savanna grave
The snow and sand comes at my eyes, a wave
In shades of frozen white and burnished gold.
I'll heal, I'll overcome my grief, I'm told
But healing's not the medicine I crave;
There's nothing left of breathing now to save
And nothing left of loving now to hold.
But when the sky parts, brave and bright with stars,
I feel your ghost rise up inside my skin
And though my smile is cut apart with scars
The promised healing fuels and begins.
My faith consoles me; you'll be never far--
The presence of an angel is within.

voices rise from the cold earth
like necromancy, like apotheosis
calling your name in tritone
calling your name in screams

dark magic anchors me here;
my toes break and grow long
and root me to the earth
my skin hardens;
my knees lock like a trunk
and i sprout leaves from my fingers
i sing flowers from my tongue

your ashes have built me,
a fusion of grave-dirt and beating heart,
and i feel you in me now
more than i ever did before--

you are breaking out of heaven
you are breaking in to my body
you are breaking metaphysics
                                       to break me

                                       (to save me)

vultures and phoenixes fight on my branches

and i will harbor you
when you come all the way home

so apparently the blood between my legs makes me less
less than a skyscraper with men in suits and vests
less than a cluster of cells who can’t breathe yet
less than a white man with a **** and a company
and if i can’t even pick what grows within me
how the **** can you call me free?

i’m nothing but an oven to cook your bun
nothing but a *** object for your own fun
nothing but an *** for you to cat-call
as you walk down the street, down the block, down the hall

i’m nothing but a **** for sleeping around
you’re the “ultimate player,” the king of the town
you call me a ***** for taking control
but you’re just a “leader,” you’re running the show

my sisters have died because they said “no”

and you won’t let me have the drugs that keep the blood in check
and you won’t let me save myself when my body’s almost wrecked
and you think it’s fine to strip my rights for Holy God Most High
and you think it’s fine to **** me if i’ve showed a little thigh

so a revolution is on the horizon
the only solution is all women rising
with venom and gunshots
with words to attack--

**we’re taking our ******* bodies back

The whispers of frost have not yet left this forest;
they cling to blades of grass, to rugged bark and clambering vines,
as we cling to each other, desperate and unready to welcome spring.

Above us, the sky is still painted in shades of winter, blue and white,
a mirror of the little lake at our feet;
the clouds vanish into the blue, swallowed by the atmosphere,
like the water reclaims the ice.

As you spread out our blankets, one on top of the other,
the melting ice reminds me of a phoenix;
a flame, consuming itself until it is ash, the beauty of rebirth—
and you and I are both red against the snow.

Our words float into the air like ghosts, thick and crystalline,
and I thank God for the cold, for making your promises tangible,
for letting me touch your syllables as you tell me that I am your solace.
But even as the wind carries them away, we see the heralds of the end:
a green shoot pushing through a carpet of wet brown leaves,
the song of a returning sparrow,
the falling of ice.

If it is to be our swan song, we don’t speak of it.
Under the riotous sunset, your fingers find mine;
your eyes have changed from green to turquoise
and we burn together beneath fleece and cotton.

When we catch our breath, the stars have emerged.

Won’t this be better in June, you say, when we don’t need the blankets?

The last of the ice is gone, returned to water once again.
I throw off our covers.

If this is spring,
I am no longer afraid.

i feel like:

a violin string
unprepared for pizzicato
plucked too sharply

the skin of a drum
after ten thousand songs
beat too hard

a piano wire
awaiting the strike
strung too taut

the singer's throat
called for an encore
too hoarse to scream

Sisters: my veins drain into the sand.
My grave exists on wood.
My eyes close.

The crows pick at my womb; my brain.
Each nail tattoos my blood
into my bones.


My dying started long ago;
it started in my youth,
when Teacher told us

boys pull our pigtails,
shove us down on playground pavement
to show their love.

It started in high school,
where bare shoulders blinded boys
from their books.

And now we are twenty.
Now men's fingers pull us into the dark.
Now the alley concrete burns.

Now a suit and tie
asks if his defendant
could see your breast and thigh.

One out of every three;
if we escape their claws
we do so narrowly.

If we flee when they call,
we risk the slice of a knife
or an exit wound

or an asphalt tomb.
Whistles peel at our skin,
the wolves to our moon.

My body is a temple.
I open my womb
to expel all who intrude:

wrinkled politicians with withered pens,
with legalese, God's pharmacists,
the filthy, forceful tongues of men

who chain my worth to fertility.
I drive them from my holy rooms
with whips of cords.


My body is limp on these boards.
My skin is an ossuary
for relics women will soon possess.

It is easy for me to die.
I bleed for my Chinese sisters,
slain before they speak;

for my Indian sisters,
doused with acid,
stolen while they sleep;

for my Saudi sisters,
given a warden,
kept from their own streets;

for my American sisters,
losing their bodies
to others’ strict beliefs.

I bleed, I bleed;
come, stand in the scarlet mud.
Come, bathe your feet,

wash your hands
in the dregs of my end;
come, purge unwanted seed.

Come, drink of my last breath,
women who wear veils,
women who sell ***.

The crows circle,
the vultures too--
I smell of death.

I am not weak.
I will not forgive them;
they know just what they do.


Now, my slaughtered sisters.
Now, my survivors.
Set down your stones.

Take the nails from my feet,
plunder my bones.
Wear them as amulets.

In three days,
I will rise
and forge weapons from your cries.

this is the seventh year
i have laid awake
in the small hours of the morning,
seized with insomnia,
reliving the night you died,
knowing that a part of me
will always blame myself--
no matter what my therapist says.

this is the sixth year
i have known
i'll sleep eventually.

this is the fifth year
i can't find the right words anymore.

this is the fourth year
i was able to celebrate you
instead of merely mourn you.

this is the third year
i have had a teaching job
and had to call in sick
because i can't fall asleep until 4am
when all i can do is stare,
bleary-eyed, into the snow and stars
and ask myself why the hell
i ever went to sleep that night.

this is the second year
i've realized your voice
is fading from my mind,
and it scares me.

this is the first year
i've realized that it gets better
but no easier.

the wind whispers to you in furious ways,
ominous notes, like a dusty violin
stenciling finality into the air.

the percussion
of foot-soldiers trembles the grass.

  you have grown, my war-child,
  from the days of ****** tea parties
  to a diva guerrilla,
  terrible and well-rehearsed,
  your bulleted libretto close to your chest--

and as trumpets sound in the offing,
the curtain draws back.

AK-47, pizzicato--
gasoline breeds fire, incinerates woodwinds,
the wine of the coloratura soprano
melts into blood.

  witch, *****, daughter of gunpowder,
  bella contralto, your
  deep and tremulous vibrato is a
  grenade,

and as death crashes to a crescendo,
mortality in the tin frequency of cymbals--

the only armistice
is annihilation.

upon the scaffolding of your bones,
she builds.

where a heart used to beat,
she invents a wild chaos with taut strings,
a mechanism fueled by *******.

she paints the walls of your long-silent skull
with a fresco of desires you never harbored,
vices you never possessed.

systems of ascension are fixed to your spine;
an express elevator, a jet, a zeppelin.
with glee, she crashes each one.

her vision shreds the blueprints.

and i, who walked the old halls,
who knew the sonorous echoes of your heart's hollow,
who learned the secret passages and the warmest rooms,
am powerless to halt her sabotage.

I.

our toes sift the smoke-seared carpet,
together. i watch them, twenty
white mice, burrowing into
nonexistent holes.

your toes
are next to my toes.

i can't believe you're here.

II.

still, i keep you at my throat;
still, i know the press of your lips;
still, the scar on my hip
is a magnet for your palm.

only one season has passed.

did we expect our bodies
to turn traitor
so soon?

III.

under vellux and linen,
we leave pools of heat:

every cell a sin,

we, the king and queen
of fire.

soon
dead leaves, blood-brown, will
crumble to dust beneath my
un-curled toes; september, come
september, come--

my warm skin will divorce your cold wall,
your hot hands, the tiny ridges in your
fingertips, and you will become
a warm shadow - a gated path - a still pulse -
an echo that will reverberate
for years
on every autumn gust

and when i am chilled into stasis
under early october stars, when my feet
carry me home once again,
i will stand behind that pillar
and close my eyes
and stretch my fingers
and whisper into the noise

*i won't forget.

in infancy,
vienna waited for me.

before bedtime,
i stood on my father’s feet
and put my tiny hands
in his large ones
as we danced around the livingroom
to billy joel.

i learned to read at two;
while young, my father taught me
how to gently set a record on the turntable,
move the arm, set the needle down

and i read the lyrics, memorizing:
war child, dark side of the moon, sports.

we made our fingers walk on a thin line;
we made our faces angry with grins.

he, via ian anderson, showed me
how to carry a sword and take a stand,
told me to be who i really want to be
and taught me what to do
when i join the good ship earth.

older yet, we sang duets,
his deep “by the hand, hand, take me by the hand”
to my “i wanna hear some funky dixieland—”
his “no sugar tonight”
to my “new mother nature.”

now, at fifty-six and twenty-five,
we sing about shiny teeth and having
nothin’ but a good time.
we teach the midwest
not to mess with a *******.

i burned hot this weekend:
one unblinking flame
in a toxic green sea.

thousands of mouths
tossing out the word "women"
as if it's the worst insult
their forked tongues can spit.

when i cut up their faces
with the rings on my fists
they'll learn "hit like a girl"
isn't an insult after all.

you make the quietest sort of noise,
a silent red static
to harmonize with my screams

you are
bright and strong
and solid as a minnesota lake
in the coldest winter

your eyes are steadfast
as keats' star

and if anyone hurts you
i will tear the heart out of them

I am in love--

with the monophonic hum of the vibrating
strings of existence, stars and fingers
and atoms singing a Gregorian chant,
the chaos of particles, wildly dancing,
the beauty of the infinitesimal,
the belief in a theory
of limitless possibilities.

I am a poet, not a scientist.
When I close my eyes,
I exist on a quantum level.
Physicists' particles, theorists' strings,
dance in purest form:
gracefully spinning en pointe electrons,
belly-dancing quarks, lithe and writhing,
a photon, swaying, dressed in light.

For comfort, I walk at night
on Einstein-Rosen bridges
from my world to others,
searching the stars for angels;
for escape, I wrap myself
in a quilted multiverse,
knowing that a version of me exists
in a universe with a version of you.

for Mark, on our wedding day*

I.

beneath trembling constellations,
your eyes reflect orion
and i realize--
the ink of night has drawn us into
wick and flame.

fragile orchids bow at the shell of your ear,
my lips in their wake,
whispering of light and shadow and love,
violent and fierce and
angelic.

my face is pale against the wind.
your bones have all but disappeared.

II.

you are as coal and ember,
fugitive in my fireplace,
dancing songs upon my cold skin
with dark fingers,
laced into the atoms of night.

the votive flame waltzes
in its mirror of wax,
our vigil;

tremulous as the first breath of midnight,
steady as the whispers of ivory
that dust the unbroken canyon
glittering under the full moon.

III.

your name breaks open
shattering over stones like starlight--

the resonance echoes
in the spaces blurred by darkness

and i am lulled to sleep,
to shelter.

because you need to stop.
because there are times when my own mental health
must be put above the mental health of others
if only to save my sanity.
because, sometimes,
even if you are fragile as thin ice,
you need a strong dose of reality.
because i dread seeing you.
because you need help that none of us can give you.
because the last thing i need
is to see you
one
more
time.