I want to wear the hill as a dress, swaddle myself in dirt and trees and the October foliage in the 5:17 p.m. light of this specific evening. We speed past. The fleeting nature of the foliage, and this moment, makes fashion impossible but glory inevitable. I cloak my mind with the hill instead. I smile at the white sheets cut into ghouls hanging from the trees outside homes but think, doesn&rsquo;t fall decorate itself quite nicely enough? When we get home I want to peel the Halloween-themed gel stickers off our living room window and tear down the faux-spiderwebs draped on the porch. I mutter something about not understanding decorations and you agree, but you&rsquo;re just visiting, and my roommates love festivities. So the stickers stay. In bed, I decorate you with my spit, and the beauty of the moment is in its evanescence. There&rsquo;s nothing evanescent about plastic decorations, except that one day we&rsquo;ll choose to take them down; I think I get it. Sometimes when the crisp Vermont air frolics in my nostrils and the mountains suck the sun into them and its warped colors decorate the sky, I feel anxious that it won&rsquo;t last and that there&rsquo;s no way for me to save the feeling it gives me. I worry that I might waste all my moments like this. How can I savor a taste I can&rsquo;t name? What kind of decoration am I for the earth, I wonder. Should I drape my nude figure against the earth&rsquo;s dewy curvature? If words can adorn then I&rsquo;ll write&ndash;&ndash;I&rsquo;ll write with my body what my mind can&rsquo;t articulate, and move the air with my limbs, ornaments of movement. We decorate with Time, to colonize it. While we carve pumpkins, then turkeys, and slit the throats of pine trees, and finally ornament ourselves in plastic glasses shaped like our future&mdash;what do we hope will change with the numbers on the calendar? That certain slant1 touches us earlier, and fades quickly. Does it remind you of your own mortality? Darkness isn&rsquo;t so scary when there&rsquo;s nothing conscious to perceive it. A supernova of leaves, the performance of their lifetime, gently perish under our feet. Bare branches shiver and giggle off snow: &ldquo;Get naked!&rdquo; Strip! Disassemble! Dismantle! But we cover ourselves up. With distractions, decorations, celebrations of the mundanity of the passage of time. On the full moon, more or less, that celestial body spotlights the spotting in my underwear and holds my maternity, and its ever-waning ability, on painful display. But aha! she certainly wanes too, and I think now, upon reflection, with a calm uterus, why don&rsquo;t I savor the pain? As darkness shuts the slant, I press on, confident.
&nbsp;
1. &nbsp;See Emily Dickinson&rsquo;s #320 &ldquo;There&rsquo;s a certain Slant of light,&rdquo;

from my thesis:&nbsp;Daughter of Domesticity&nbsp;

Slanted

A River's Revolution

I&rsquo;ll think of you in a warm summer breeze,
sailing across clouds&nbsp;
and buzzing in the molecules of a salty air,
eternally swimming in peace.
&nbsp;
I&rsquo;ll think of you in the anticipatory silence&nbsp;
before I make a witty comment&nbsp;
and in the weight of my every word;&nbsp;
&nbsp;
in the blooming hydrangeas&nbsp;
and the scrambling weeds,&nbsp;
I&rsquo;ll remember your never-ending 
bending over and tending of gardens&nbsp;
and wonder what gardens I&rsquo;ll tend in my life.&nbsp;
&nbsp;
At mouthy meals,&nbsp;
I&rsquo;ll make silly faces across the table, like you,&nbsp;
when words couldn&rsquo;t or wouldn't do;
hear the echo of your echo 
in a dog&rsquo;s bark or a baby&rsquo;s cry
&nbsp;
I&rsquo;ll think of you, hands gripped 
on the smooth shape of a rook castling,
and in the castle of family you left behind.
&nbsp;
I&rsquo;ll see you in Momo&rsquo;s gaze,&nbsp;&nbsp;
in the eyes of her children,
and grandchildren,&nbsp;
and perhaps in the eyes of my own one day.&nbsp;
&nbsp;
Today, I thought of you while I sat in jury duty!
Remembering your legal roles 
and your balanced opinions.
Today and every day we celebrate
that our daily lives are forever imbued with your love.

Poem for Tish

The House&rsquo;s guests had trodden its stairs inattentively for days now. Trodden and padded and ambled. It waited flat and angled and protruding, watching from light fixtures for the woman&rsquo;s hands to move in that certain way they did.
&nbsp;
Previous efforts of the House had drawn the attention of both the woman and the man. An inconsistent rattling in the ventilation system above their bed had been perfectly frustrating. However, the guests proved an impenetrable team, gripping their pillows and each other&rsquo;s hands, teasing the House as they tiptoed to the downstairs bedroom where their bodies entwined and they forgot the House. The House had been annoyed, until it hung erect over the woman while her fingers danced symbols into a language the House would never be able to understand. And yet, it tingled with the woman&rsquo;s emanations.
&nbsp;
Our house moves and creaks and breathes. What secrets hide in its vibrations and uncontrollable shakes? A steady breath, heavy wind against the frame, shield, sealed from reality. It wakes me up at night&hellip; with what message? It swallows, spits &ndash; gassy thing.
&nbsp;
Tonight, suspended and stretched and painted, the House peers at the rotting bananas through shadows cross-hatched blue and orange. It tenses over their short lives and blames the woman for forgetting them. She sits, legs dangling, on the white kitchen stool, just inches from the aged bananas. The House growls, knowing it must prey on the woman while she is alone. With a quick shake, the House knocks the poorly velcroed temporary curtains from the glass patio door, exposing the blind outdoors to the woman. She startles at the movement and stares warily, impossibly, through the glass door, seeing only her own reflection in the darkness. The woman freezes, doe-like, for moments, before reattaching the curtain and releasing a string of words. The House basks in its nude form on the woman&rsquo;s page, dripping with power.
&nbsp;
In the daytime it&rsquo;s my house. At night it houses me&ndash; Hounds me
&nbsp;
Later, the woman cries in the basement, curled under the Cladosporium-colored crocheted blanket with her knees curled up on the couch. The man tramples down the House&rsquo;s stairs and it lets some scream and some creak &ndash; it only has so many outlets to express itself, after all. The man looks alarmed at the woman&rsquo;s tears but she smiles and tells him how she cries with love and
&nbsp;
Gratitude for the space the house provides
&nbsp;
Outside, the neighborhood barn owl flaps his thick wings, like pages of a book, and lands softly on the tree that kisses the hard, outer walls of the House. The barn owl has no barn, no official home, but the soft wood of his favorite Ginkgo tree always welcomes his weary talons. His pale face glints against the dark brick of the House, and he hovers like a ghost for a few minutes before finishing his night hunt. As he quietly soars off, he caresses the House with his feathers, unknowingly grateful for its silent strength.
&nbsp;
The House shrugs off a tickle without wondering what, or who, had caused it, too busy watching its guests grab each other and squish together on the basement couch. The wind moaning against the House&rsquo;s windows is still not quite as loud as the woman. The House hangs levelly, a ceiling, a floor, and everything in between. Dented with holes of lightbulbs, sharply slanted, surgically split open with doors and windows, the House sighs under the weight of its body. Who would ever rub their hands on the House like the man and woman do to each other?
&nbsp;
At sunrise, the barn owl sleepily sails the early morning breeze to the Ginkgo tree, but, on a languid whim, finds himself pulling upwards, landing on the House&rsquo;s roof, wondering why he&rsquo;d never thought to explore up here before.
&nbsp;
Once the man and woman had fallen asleep last night, the House had grown bored and sat impatiently on its foundation. The owl&rsquo;s touch arouses the House from its stillness. The House slithers its attention to the source, and, through a slit of a door on its roof, the House is able to look out at the barn owl sitting tentatively on its edges.
&nbsp;
The barn owl ruffles his feathers, feeling the House&rsquo;s existence there with him. The barn owl notices a change in his state of being &ndash; he doesn&rsquo;t understand the concept of loneliness, but he recognizes, only now that he feels good, that he had been in a kind of pain before. The barn owl likes how the House&rsquo;s presence makes him feel, realizing it had been the cause of his rare moments of relief, and not the Gingko tree alone. For a while, the House and the barn owl just listen to the sounds of the city with each other, the House forgetting the guests inside it.
&nbsp;
At nightfall, the barn owl blinks his eyes open and shakes out his feathers, immediately noticing the House&rsquo;s company and knowing it had been with him all day. Even in the cold winter evening, the barn owl feels warmth surging in his body. He gives the top of the roof a gentle scratch with his talon before propelling into the light-polluted sky to scrounge for city rats and squirrels.
&nbsp;
Oh, how the House feels open! The barn owl had reminded the House of its existing freedom within its structure. The House lets its energy ripple throughout its frame, leaving at least one crack in its walls. The crack in the tile of the shower welcomes backed-up water into it, and the House shudders with the weight of the water in its walls. The House is bursting, so why does it feel so good?
&nbsp;
As it leaks from the ceiling, the House excitedly awaits the reaction of the man and the woman. Their body language indicates that they seem to appreciate the House&rsquo;s spontaneous explosion less than the House does. But later the House tingles, feeling the woman reflect.
&nbsp;
At my makeshift desk of &ndash; how I wish I knew the type &ndash; some kind of deep wood, I think of you. It&rsquo;s been a while. House, how are you? Did you crack your walls begging for our attention? Leaking to remind us of you? Power to the water, and to you, for your labyrinth of shapely walls and beams and wood and metal and brick and? House, what are you made of? Please strip down for me to see where you held the water and where it choked you &ndash; did it hurt when the water flooded into you? I thought I felt your tears hit me from the ceiling. I notice you, house. Ha! You acknowledge me with a runny refrigerator, and the ice drops and clinks like a chuckle.
&nbsp;
In fact, the House can understand nothing but the feeling the woman and her writing emit. The House warms under the gaze of the writer, but it&rsquo;s nothing compared to the barn owl&rsquo;s presence earlier. The House knows a new kind of power now.

The Props assist the House -
Until the House is Built -
And then the Props with - draw -
And adequate - Erect -
The House support itself -
And cease to recollect
The Scaffold, and the Carpenter -
Just such a Retrospect
Hath the Perfected Life -
A Past of Plank - and Nail -
And Slowness - then the Stagings drop -
Affirming it - A Soul -
&nbsp;
- Emily Dickinson #729 (Franklin Variorum 1998)

The House

I like to feel her strip my skull
and pick a part to probe.
She spits chagrin into my Grooves&nbsp;
and never mops my lobes.
&nbsp;
She seeps into my ventricles&nbsp;
and drowns my buoyant mind.&nbsp;
A tendril penetrates my throat&nbsp;
and coils around my spine.
&nbsp;
She tongues my thoughts until I come&nbsp;
to trust what she observes;
glues muntins to my dusty eyes
and cons my optic nerves.
&nbsp;
I&rsquo;m dripping with her Frame of Mind:&nbsp;
my fragile one, it quakes.
A contradiction. I spurns I.
My mind&rsquo;s Foundation breaks.

from my thesis:&nbsp;Daughter of Domesticity&nbsp;

Sorrow's Seduction

I used to pick blueberries in Vermont on warm summer days and hide in blueberry patches with a boy named Zach who sang me Beatles songs until my cheeks burned red. I would have preferred to hide in the cabin because my mind outlined too many drawings in the shadows, coloring them in with detail. I wouldn&rsquo;t call it art. The darkness was the perfect canvas for my untamed, sometimes frightening, imagination. So I didn&rsquo;t necessarily like hiding in the blueberry patches on those dark buggy nights playing tag with Zach in Vermont.&nbsp;
&nbsp;
One of those nights I sat huddled in the bushes, fearing what hovered in the shadows, waiting for someone to find me, and I let my ears succumb to the seductive songs of the cicadas. Surrounded by their clicking buzzing voices I felt lifted, like I was floating in the fresh air of the night: one animal, one piece of earth, among the rest. The stars were alive, a fuzzy infinity of light, and the moon, nature&rsquo;s flashlight (actually, flashlights must be human&rsquo;s moons), saw me as I saw her.&nbsp;
&nbsp;
Then the moon exploded onto my face as Zach came running up to me with his flashlight.
&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;&ldquo;Can I hide with you?&rdquo; He whispered as he crouched down next to me. The air around us quivered with the sound of the cicada chorus and our tentative breathing. A glint in the clearing caught my eye and Cruella de Vil&rsquo;s hair looked at me with beady eyes. I nudged Zach and he immediately shone his flashlight at the skunk, frightening it. As it turned and began to lift its tail, we stumbled out of the blueberry patch, scream-laughing and giggling. I had never seen a skunk before, and part of me wished that I had quietly observed it existing instead of involving Zach. The other players had heard our loud reactions to the skunk and they came out of hiding to see what the ruckus was about. Once we explained, my sisters held their noses and pretended that Zach and I had been sprayed by the skunk, and the other kids laughed and played along.&nbsp;
&nbsp;
&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;&ldquo;PEE-YEW!&rdquo; They chanted over and over. Such children. I rolled my eyes and fought the urge to respond defensively to their mockery. The game was over and it was late, so everyone parted ways for the night. Back at the cabin I told my parents excitedly about the skunk. My sisters clamored about me needing to take a shower to wash all the stink off. My mom said, &ldquo;I love that smell,&rdquo; and my dad snorted.
&nbsp;
&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;&ldquo;Yeah, me too,&rdquo; he jokingly agreed, &ldquo;but not when it&rsquo;s from the animal.&rdquo;&nbsp;
&nbsp;
Before I went to sleep I wanted to look out at the night one more time, while I still felt alive with it. Outside the screen door&mdash;a thin, grainy separation between the world and me&mdash; and materializing like the Cheshire Cat, the outline of a moose appeared:&nbsp;
&nbsp;
Towering, antlerless,&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;
high as a church,
homely as a house
(or, safe as houses).1
&nbsp;
It was bigger, and more majestic, than I could have ever imagined. I saw the moose and the moose saw me. There was no time or space involved: we saw each other and coexisted and were one, and then, all of a sudden, we weren&rsquo;t. She disappeared into the night. And how could anyone have believed me when I told them? Sometimes I wonder if my mind was just painting the darkness as it often does&hellip; but a part of me distinctly remembers that moment with an inexplicable certainty.&nbsp;
&nbsp;
In the morning, my sisters and I picked blueberries with Zach, and I told him about the moose. He looked like the son of the sun, his red hair glinting in the morning light. And he wanted to find the moose with me. We ate our blueberries in pancakes and muffins and straight out of our stained hands, and we swam in the lake in the afternoon. We splashed each other and swam out to the raft and pushed each other off of it, laughing.&nbsp;
&nbsp;
After dinner, Zach was lounging, as well as one can lounge, in the swing outside the lodge. The sunset was combed through his hair, and he looked up at me. My skin trembled where it met the air, glowing orange. He tossed me a flashlight and raised his eyebrows. The moose. I felt weird. I thought he wanted to kiss me. If we went out looking for the moose alone, we would be alone. Once we were alone, a tree could fall that only we two would ever hear. I wasn&rsquo;t scared of Zach. I dreamed up scenarios of our first kiss every night that summer. I was scared of a new experience, of vulnerability, of doing something that scared me. He was hurt when I shook my head, and the last week of summer seemed to happen all in a moment.
&nbsp;
We never looked for the moose, but I didn&rsquo;t really want to anyway&mdash;it felt disrespectful and invasive. That was the last summer I ever saw Zach and picked blueberries and saw a moose. But the moose&rsquo;s eyes still glint like stained glass in my mind; I don&rsquo;t wonder if it is in haunting or protection. It just is.&nbsp;
&nbsp;
&ldquo;Yes ...&rdquo; that peculiar&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;
affirmative. &ldquo;Yes ...&rdquo;
A sharp, indrawn breath,&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;
half groan, half acceptance,&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;
that means &ldquo;Life&rsquo;s like that.&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;
We know it (also death).&rdquo;2

Moosings on an Encounter

Beautiful, beautiful, beautiful. I knew the signs before I felt them. It was time. I quivered and quaked, pleasure rumbling through me. My lips parted, liquid exploding out of me, and little orgasmic aftershocks kept me shivering for hours afterwards. I screamed when I had finished releasing, finally feeling the pain of the rupture. I had to adjust to my new shape, but I had time. Now I would sleep again.&nbsp;&nbsp;
~
&nbsp;
Aimee was mindlessly scrolling through TikTok when a New York Times breaking news alert sleekly slid down the top of her phone screen, attracting her eyes: &ldquo;Magnitude&ndash;9.1 earthquake shakes Pacific Northwest; major tsunami warnings.&rdquo; Aimee gracefully floated her thumb to the notification, delicately tapping it to be transported to the article. She learned that the earthquake had caused the tectonic plates in the Cascadia Subduction Zone to shift, releasing large amounts of energy that moved the water up, up, up, and then back down, only to split and start rushing at over 500 miles per hour in two directions: half moving towards the northwest coast of the United States of America and the other half towards Japan.&nbsp;
&nbsp;
&ldquo;Damn, that&rsquo;s crazy,&rdquo; Aimee murmured, swiping up to exit the NYT app. Another alert buzzed and hung from the top of the screen, waiting for her to dismiss it: &ldquo;Covid Masquerade Party - in 30 mins.&rdquo; Aimee melted out of bed and sunk into each step to her closet. She sighed. Hadn&rsquo;t she just been drinking wine by herself, trying on outfits for when she could finally go out with her friends again? Already she had reverted back to dreading social events and dressing up. Normal already felt so&hellip; normal. Coronavirus felt like a distant memory to her, probably because she hadn&rsquo;t been directly affected in any extremely negative ways. One whole fifth of her 25 years of life had passed since the majority of the world had been vaccinated, and the two and a half years, spent on Zoom, spent masked and isolated, felt like nothing, a blur, just another part of the haze of her four years in college.&nbsp;
&nbsp;
Tonight her friends were reuniting to celebrate the five years since the end of the pandemic. Aimee&rsquo;s friend Cassie had organized the party: a variation of the classic masquerade, where instead of wearing masks over their eyes, everyone would wear personally designed face masks, an ode to the days of Covid.&nbsp;&nbsp;
&nbsp;&nbsp;
A text from Cassie distracted her from getting dressed and sent her back to TikTok, where she watched a video of a famous, if controversial, TikTok star dancing on a cliff, in Oregon, Aimee guessed, with&mdash;could it be? Of course it could, hadn&rsquo;t she just read that article?&mdash;roaring tsunami waves quickly approaching behind her. Aimee gasped, or, if not audibly, her mind at least felt like gasping. The video had just been posted, and it had millions of likes already&mdash;Cassie&rsquo;s text said &ldquo;Look at this bitch, doesn&rsquo;t she care at all?&rdquo;&nbsp;&nbsp;
&nbsp;
~
&nbsp;
It had been two weeks since the earthquake and subsequent tsunamis. The huge earthquake in the Cascadia Subduction Zone had not only sent 30 foot tsunamis, flooding the coasts of Pacific Northwest, but also triggered the San Andreas Fault to finally rupture, shocking Californians despite preparation over the years. Before Nico&rsquo;s family could evacuate, thanks to the two hours of warning they had before the tsunamis reached the Southern Californian coast, they had taken cover for the 50 seconds of shaking from the magnitude 8.2 earthquake. Immediately, fires burned and shredded the city, most water and electricity lines snapped and broke, and Nico felt a confusing feeling: he was entranced by this extreme natural disaster, the worst thing he had ever seen in his life, and simultaneously the most amazing thing he had ever experienced.&nbsp;
&nbsp;
Two weeks later, L.A. was all but dead: streets of rubble, water and electricity lines not yet fixed, and those who hadn&rsquo;t evacuated living in tent cities. The adrenaline caused by the eye-attracting disasters had faded like a past life and Nico felt the heaviness of the new reality of his life. His mother, the one from whom he had always felt distant, was sick, after drinking unclean water, unboiled water, and he knew they wouldn&rsquo;t be able to access health care soon enough to help her. He hated himself for it, but he cursed his other mom, his mentor, his favorite family member, for being on business in New York when the earthquakes struck. They had not yet been able to get in contact after the quakes, and now he cried openly in the middle of the afternoon, calling to her with a voice that ached with thirst. She would probably never come for them. Maybe she thought they were dead. Maybe they were dead.&nbsp;
&nbsp;
The earthquakes and tsunamis had attracted immense attention from the US and the world. &ldquo;The Big One&rdquo; had finally hit, and it was worse than anyone could have predicted, but it was the after-effects that were the most painful&mdash;and the most forgotten by those not affected. New York City had briefly died during the pandemic, but Nico knew that Los Angeles had burned in hell and would never be revived. His mother raspily breathed in the back of their tent, and Nico wished they hadn&rsquo;t survived at all.&nbsp;&nbsp;

An Excerpt

Tidal

Inside the repeating track of white noise I require to sleep, there exists a world. I hear ethereal sirens blaring fuzzily through the clouds of the whirring fan. In their wails, a distant memory sings: stitched inside my childhood quilt, butterflies quiver in pools of the city night haze, and I lie, sleepy and safe in my creaky twin bed, inhaled&nbsp;
&nbsp;
and exhaled by the pulsating breath of immortal New York. In incomplete darkness. A mosaic of shadowed buildings painted across my walls in the dim bluish white light of the moon. Yellow rectangles glowing from the windows of living people, awake, sharing consciousness with me. And sirens&mdash;sirens, like lullabies, plunging into my cerebrospinal fluid, and swimming, syrupy, around my brain. Percussing on my eardrums, each siren patterned my little mind into slumber. On the other end of each shrieking journey, perhaps someone was joining me in sleep&mdash; permanently.&nbsp;
&nbsp;
I can&rsquo;t sleep in total silence, you know&mdash;for fear it won&rsquo;t stay total silence, you see. I listen too carefully to sounds that dart from ear&nbsp; &nbsp; &nbsp; &nbsp; &nbsp; &nbsp; &nbsp; &nbsp; &nbsp; &nbsp; &nbsp; &nbsp; &nbsp; &nbsp; &nbsp; to &nbsp; &nbsp; &nbsp; &nbsp; &nbsp; &nbsp; &nbsp; &nbsp; &nbsp; &nbsp; &nbsp; &nbsp; &nbsp; &nbsp; ear and noises that flick my tired, veiny eyes along, side&nbsp; &nbsp; &nbsp; &nbsp; &nbsp; &nbsp; &nbsp; &nbsp; &nbsp; &nbsp; &nbsp; &nbsp; &nbsp; &nbsp; &nbsp; to &nbsp; &nbsp; &nbsp; &nbsp; &nbsp; &nbsp; &nbsp; &nbsp; &nbsp; &nbsp; &nbsp; &nbsp; &nbsp; &nbsp; side. Is someone there? Am I alone&mdash;? So I can&rsquo;t sleep&mdash;oh no, I can&rsquo;t sleep, unless I&rsquo;m drowning in the consistent droning of my fan. Its distortions conjure up the sounds of my safest sleeps: the sirens of someone else&rsquo;s emergencies&hellip; Why is it so? Why must it be? That something so frightening can lay me at peace?&nbsp;
&nbsp;
I live inside a world of&nbsp; persistent noise&mdash;like the fuzzy black and white screen on your TV that sort of buzzes and hisses&mdash;shhhhh it seems to say, and it fills my brain with static&hellip;&nbsp;&nbsp;
&nbsp;
Sirens sound closer now&mdash;what&rsquo;s the opposite of a lullaby? A mourning song, they sing. Released from the clouded grasp of the noise around me, replaced by hands, surrounding me, wrapping me up: I&rsquo;m numb, mute&mdash;. These sirens are sharp, they stab my static mind. Vibrating inside me now, flashing blue and red behind my eyelids, and it&rsquo;s raining&mdash;God, isn&rsquo;t there just something so nostalgic about New York City in rain&mdash;
&nbsp;
I&rsquo;m on the other end, now, of some wailing journey&mdash;and I sure do hope someone was eased peacefully into sleep by the distant, familiar sounds of the sirens that came to get me.

Sirens

It&rsquo;s dark green, or maybe silver.
It singes holes in my chest&nbsp;
from its chambers in my brain,&nbsp;
&nbsp;
when Right and Wrong&nbsp;
seem just like letters
strung arbitrarily along.
&nbsp;
It tugs me under,&nbsp;
melts me into the milky nuances
that bubble in between the lines.
&nbsp;
I&rsquo;ve sunk so deep that I&rsquo;ve lost sight&nbsp;
of the page above, the one tattooed&nbsp;
with rule-bound words. The syntaxed corset
&nbsp;
that once bound me so tightly.&nbsp;
So is it so bad&ndash;or is it freeing&ndash;
that my own binding is now fraying?
&nbsp;
Floating in liquid limbo I wonder,
drifting further from the page,
who wrote this book, anyway?

Unruly

Do you ever miss an old Self?
One you come across&nbsp;
when dusting off an old shelf&mdash;
&nbsp;
She&rsquo;s kind of cold&nbsp;
and soaked in smut,
but oh what a sight to behold!&nbsp;&nbsp;
&nbsp;
You can&rsquo;t quite hold her in your hands&nbsp;
like before&mdash;she&rsquo;s jellyfish&nbsp;
drooling through your fingers
&nbsp;
through the floorboards
down the street&nbsp;
back into the sea&mdash;
&nbsp;
But she still lingers like late autumn air,&nbsp;
crisp, before the first snow&mdash;
so I try to hold her in my breath, instead:
&nbsp;
She burns like capsaicin in my nostrils!
but fades out in just a moment,&nbsp;
and now scents and my senses
&nbsp;
become all bland again,
back where I began.
Dully moving on to the next shelf,
&nbsp;
I wonder if I&rsquo;ll ever miss&nbsp;
this present Self&mdash;the one I seem&nbsp;
to hate so much right now.

Spring Cleaning

While we sit over coffee and tea,&nbsp;
I ask him about the Window,
if he has ever glanced beyond its curtains.
&nbsp;
He sips my tea accidentally&nbsp;
and spills hot water on himself&nbsp;
when he realizes.&nbsp;
&nbsp;
With a sigh,
&nbsp;
and a breath,&nbsp;
&nbsp;
he tells me about the time he almost slithered all the way through the Door.
&nbsp;
How the threshold&nbsp;
had beckoned and blurred
every time she crossed his mind.&nbsp;
&nbsp;
He milks his tear ducts,
and ducks his face into his steaming cup
like a duck searching for insects in a pond.&nbsp;
&nbsp;
When he resurfaces,&nbsp;
his mouth holds not a pile of bugs
but a stiff, stick-like smile&mdash;
&nbsp;
a bell jingles&mdash;overlapping voices; laughter; honks;&nbsp;
the effervescent clack of shoes snogging sidewalk;
the crowded bustle of the city&nbsp;
&nbsp;
penetrates my mind, pulls me to the woman
who stands hesitantly at the caf&eacute; door.
I draw the curtains back from my Window:
&nbsp;
I imagine walking up to her
and, gently leaning against the doorframe,&nbsp;
intoxicated by the fresh air of the threshold, I&hellip;
&nbsp;
I finish my tea. It&rsquo;s lukewarm.
His voice, chilled:
&ldquo;What do we do?&rdquo;

S(l)ipping

Depression wears a weathered leather jacket;
she sheds it just for me.
Hazel hexagons tattoo her back,
a tortoise,
seductive with her wisdom.
She watches me watch her
undress.
&nbsp;
Her dilated pupils wobble&nbsp;
as her eyeballs roll out of her head
and onto the floor.
&ldquo;Go on, try them.&rdquo;&nbsp;
&nbsp;
And how could I not?
&nbsp;
With fingers like tendrils of smoke,
she strips me of my own eyes
and they dissolve in the vapor of her hands.
My sockets burn in darkness&nbsp;
until my veins accept her slimy organs
in a successful transplant.
&nbsp;
&ldquo;Ah, now can&rsquo;t you see
that you&rsquo;re not good enough?&rdquo;&nbsp;
&nbsp;
Oh yes, I see it now.
&nbsp;
She smiles and kisses me.
She says she likes my taste.
She steeps me in her tea kettle&nbsp;
and drinks my bleeding zest.
&nbsp;
I feel sleepy,&nbsp;
so I turtle comfortably&nbsp;&nbsp;
inside her shell.
&nbsp;
I miss my Self&nbsp;
and lose track of the days,
but I think I like it here.
&nbsp;
I devour the words she serves,&nbsp;
dipped in sugar.
Cavities fester in my teeth
as I learn to feed myself:
&nbsp;
I am nothing.
&nbsp;
Still the words taste so sweet,
and I deserve this sting in my nerves.
&nbsp;
Don&rsquo;t I?

Emaciated Teabag

While pods of people prattle on,
I peer profoundly at the pier&nbsp;
through pink pellucid wine&nbsp;
that quivers in this glass of mine.&nbsp;&nbsp;
&nbsp;
My words are empty,&nbsp;
and so I do not speak.
My eyes are heavy,&nbsp;
and so I want to sleep.&nbsp;
&nbsp;
Clouds adorn my shielding mask,
absorbing every breath,
prepared to burst into a rain&nbsp;
of phlegm and old champagne.
&nbsp;
This mask of sky can only hide&nbsp;
the fact I do not smile;
I wish it hid my eyes instead
so I could rest awhile.&nbsp;
&nbsp;
I cannot stand the bugs, I say,&nbsp;
they&rsquo;re eating me alive.
But no one seems to hear me&nbsp;
or see me flee inside.
&nbsp;
This is not my house but still&nbsp;
I hide upstairs and cry.
&nbsp;
I hear all of their voices
softly carried through the air:
like hot wind through tall grass,
they blow straight through my hair.
&nbsp;
I prefer to watch this cruel world glow
through the safety of an old window,
on the comfort of another&rsquo;s bed
where I can try to disinfect my head.
&nbsp;
Soon this silent chamber
hears my mind go into labor,
and it&rsquo;s saturated in naught but
the sticky silk of my dark thoughts:
&nbsp;
cobwebs strung across the room,
like the inside of an ancient tomb,
they delicately droop beneath
the dust of my despair.
&nbsp;
O, please let me decay&nbsp;
into the waves that sway the bay&nbsp;
Or into clouds that sail the sky,
Let me be anything but I&hellip;&nbsp;

Introversion at a Cocktail Party

A stuffed dolphin&mdash;for years I stubbornly
Called a whale&mdash;
Well, well, well:&nbsp;
Now, the stuffing lies scattered&nbsp;
In the backyard.
Doesn&rsquo;t really matter now
If it was a dolphin or
A whale.&nbsp;
The dog went to war with it&nbsp;
Nonetheless.
Regardless of its identity.
Now it has been torn into
Snowballs in the shape&nbsp;
Of clouds&mdash;
Clouds in the shape&nbsp;
Of snowballs
Floating in the uncut summer grass.
The robin&rsquo;s hatchlings&nbsp;
Chirp chirp chirp
For their mamma,
Still safely nestled in their
Home of twigs, grass, and leaves,
And maybe
Their mother will even bring them the
Luxury of fluff,&nbsp;
from the deceased
Dolphin-Whale, lying overturned
On his back, his wide eyes watching me
As I write,
The same way he watched me&nbsp;
As the dog ripped into his guts.
A lawn mower blares from a&nbsp;
Neighboring yard,
Birds continue to twitter and chitter&nbsp;
Around me, and I watch as&nbsp;
A fly perches on&nbsp;
His tattered blue snout.&nbsp;

Casualty

floating stars that trace my path home.
The warm glow of the amber moon&nbsp;
is her face,&nbsp;
golden in the flame of the lighter.
The sound of her quick flicks and giggles.&nbsp;
Her soft inhale, the smokey breath of her exhale:&nbsp;&nbsp;
shadows that blanket the round moon.
And now she bloodies the night,
veils it like a darkroom,
with her rouged cheeks and red eyes.
&nbsp;
The streetlights, my guiding stars,
fade next to her,
and she becomes my sole shepherd home.
Fondling my thoughts,&nbsp;
she smiles down at me,&nbsp;
before losing me to the indoors.
The smell of skunk silhouettes the stairwell,
clouding my nose and mind with her.&nbsp;
&nbsp;
In my bed I lie still,
awaiting daybreak.

Yellow Streetlights:

An Attempt at Cli-Fi

Escape World

My therapist took me to an art exhibit today.
A purple-grey wire ball, the size of my fist,&nbsp;
hung from a web of veins and bones strung from wall&nbsp;
&nbsp;
to wall.&nbsp;
&ldquo;Are you beautiful underneath all that wire?&rdquo;&nbsp;
I asked. Each word sticking to the web&nbsp;
&nbsp;
and rattling the bones. I could hear
blood gurgling through the veins,&nbsp;&nbsp;
and the purple wire tightened like a snake.&nbsp;
&nbsp;
A shaky voice over the museum intercom echoed&nbsp;&nbsp;
I&rsquo;m afraid to check,&nbsp;
and I feel safer underneath.&nbsp;
&nbsp;
Now as I stand here, my dark blank eyes&nbsp;
scanning the dark blank sky,
pop music drowning in the air,
&nbsp;
I wonder to myself and to the stars:&nbsp;
what force allowed clouds
on the night of this rare meteor shower?
&nbsp;
Yet maybe the stars tonight
feel safer behind the clouds,
protected from selfish onlookers like me.
&nbsp;
My therapist told me to bring sunflowers
to the exhibit,&nbsp;
&ldquo;A peace offering.&rdquo;
&nbsp;
The wirey hand of the shy structure
reached to gather the flowers,
delicately placing them one by one
&nbsp;
in the gaps of her wiring.
The sunny yellow faces&nbsp;
smiled thank you.

Am I Beautiful?

&nbsp;And&nbsp;
&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;so
&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;both&nbsp;
&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;our&nbsp;
&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;naked&nbsp;
&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;bodies&nbsp;
&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;fold into&nbsp;&nbsp;
&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;each other one last time.&nbsp;
&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;I&rsquo;m an Origami swan rippling&nbsp;
&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;along the lake of your skin.
&nbsp;
I contour all of my edges into the nooks of your body, but still
you sigh, and I miss the comfort of my own bed.&nbsp;
&nbsp;
My papery skin is wrinkled (an ugly duckling more than a swan),
bent too many times into triangles and squares. And still&nbsp;
&nbsp;
my shape never looks quite like the final product you imagine.
So I unfold over and over in your hands,
&nbsp;
your fingers nimbly aligning each of my limbs into the creases.
And when my body is finally pulped, 
&nbsp;
you throw me in your heart's wastebasket.
Without your flattening, I can once again feel
&nbsp;
the uneven waves of my own skin.&nbsp;

Origami swan

asleep next to me&nbsp;
&nbsp;
butts smushed against each other
&nbsp;
crescendo of car honks, sirens singing songs of urgency
&nbsp;
distant white noise of our night
&nbsp;
eyes of our baby two craters on the moon
&nbsp;
face shadow smiling in the white light&nbsp;
&nbsp;
goodnight moonbaby i whisper
&nbsp;
hiccups shake the bed, shake your languid body
&nbsp;
i turn to cuddle your soft, pink body
&nbsp;
just like our baby &nbsp;
&nbsp;
kin of kindred spirits
&nbsp;
Lamb of God&nbsp;
&nbsp;
ma-ma she coos from her crib
&nbsp;
next, nestled in my bosom
&nbsp;
on our mattress that molds to our skin
&nbsp;
perched by the window that frames the night sky
&nbsp;
quiet drifting from the clouds,
&nbsp;
rumbling cars from the streets
&nbsp;
siren sings us her sweet song of city sleep&nbsp;
&nbsp;
til my eyes and my baby&rsquo;s are shadowed craters once more
&nbsp;
upstairs neighbor sleeps with his cigarettes
&nbsp;
violet flames decorate his comforter&nbsp;
&nbsp;
wake up wake up
&nbsp;
Xs in your eyes&nbsp;&nbsp;
&nbsp;
yonder, sirens beg me to take baby and leave
&nbsp;
zesty taste of lemon on my tongue as i kiss you sweet dreams

An Abecedarian

Moonbaby

Peering over&nbsp;
the cliff&rsquo;s spinning edge,
wet bells in my ears ring a pellucid blue.
&nbsp;
You squeeze my hand as if for the last time,
and tell me since you quit smoking
the adrenaline of jumping keeps you high.
&nbsp;
My eyes &ndash;POP&ndash;&nbsp;
are dangling from their sockets,
as your scream follows you underwater.&nbsp;
&nbsp;
Like weights, my eyeballs jerk me over, too,
and my body flails behind them,
like a flaccid flag thwap thwap thwapping in the wind.
&nbsp;
And without a pole to ground me,&nbsp;
my fingers and toes grasp at gasping air,
exhaled from my own contracting lungs.
&nbsp;
The pink balloons squeal and hisssssssssssss,&nbsp;
craving re-inflation, but the sweet oxygen&nbsp;
from these Vermont trees can&rsquo;t be caged.
&nbsp;
I flounder in this purgatory &mdash;
but ironically my habitual thoughts of death&nbsp;
have expired with my breath.&nbsp;
&nbsp;
I&rsquo;m finally flying!
Then, the saggy pink balloons burst with air,
the pure liquid spanks my skin, blue burns on my thighs &mdash;&nbsp;
&nbsp;
Heaven tingles in my hands.

The Quarry

Inside the sun&rsquo;s belly, my daughter converted hydrogen into helium when she inhaled my nutrients (kernels of corn that flossed my teeth for me, molten lava cake that warmed my gullet, soggy pickles I&rsquo;ll never ingest again). She floated around, like a slimy pink balloon, producing static against my uterus lining, until my pubic hair stood at attention. It saluted you as you brushed your teeth and I peed happily&hellip;&nbsp;
&nbsp;
Just before you left me, there was always dried piss on the toilet seat. You didn&rsquo;t lift it anymore. You gagged whenever I cooked scrambled eggs: told me you saw our daughter in the sizzling pan. Told me you saw her reflected in my eyes. And you hated me for it.&nbsp;
&nbsp;
Now some nights, in my dreams, I still stumble upon us painting her room that day. We&rsquo;re like bees preparing their hive for the new queen. Honey drooling down the walls and from our lips. Like a ghost, I drift towards our buzzing bodies and watch you paint a sunny side up smile on my round belly with your sticky fingers.&nbsp;
&nbsp;
Thrashing in my sweat-soaked bed, I&rsquo;m ready to wake up. I try to leave our apartment in a dusty corner of my brain, before the moon of that bitter night casts a blue regurgitation on the half splattered yellow walls.
&nbsp;
But I&rsquo;m paralyzed in my past body: reliving the way the cold toilet seat felt on my naked cheeks, how I spent the night scratching her blood and mine into the drying paint, the way your face contorted when I said She&rsquo;s all over the bathroom floor&nbsp;and I fetched the mop, how the yolk of my dead egg squished in the crevices between my bony toes and
&nbsp;
the way your veiny eyeballs called me a monster, so I fantasized about nibbling on them. I always imagined they would melt like caviar on my tongue.

Jaundice

You&rsquo;re putting your t-shirt back on and
handing me my underwear from the dusty floor.
I brush off wood shavings.
&nbsp;
You look down at me.
The light from your phone screen
is dim in the dark heaviness of the room.
&nbsp;
Your eyes are cold, toothed blades.&nbsp;
I smile up at you,
but you just motion for your sweatpants.&nbsp;
&nbsp;
I stand up from our makeshift bed of clothes&nbsp;
and give them to you.
Suddenly you&rsquo;re dressed,&nbsp;
&nbsp;
and I feel awkwardly naked:&nbsp;
as if you&rsquo;d just whittled my body
into a shape you no longer liked.
&nbsp;
You sneak out first so we don&rsquo;t get caught.
Still dripping with you, I reclothe myself in the dark.
I meet you outside, smiling numbly.&nbsp;
&nbsp;
We walk wordlessly back to our dorms.
I sob silently in the shower&mdash;
How does it feel to fuck a shattered girl?&nbsp;
&nbsp;
Furiously scrubbing you from my skin,
I swear I&rsquo;ll stop sacrificing my body
to your apathetic penetration,
&nbsp;
but even as I think it, I know that&nbsp;
I&rsquo;ll keep letting your knife carve me&nbsp;
until I have nothing left to give.

Sex in the Woodworking Room / THE GIving tree

You were dragonflies in my ears,&nbsp;
wings fluttering with your fears,
but still, &ldquo;Let&rsquo;s soar,&rdquo; you said.
And we swam through the sunset&rsquo;s reds.
How many colors streamed down my face&nbsp;
when you kissed me in outer space?
A watercolor of emotions&nbsp;
on a canvas made of oceans.
&nbsp;
I saw dragonflies in my dreams,
crawling out of my sofa&rsquo;s seams.
Their gentle legs tickled my skin
as they tiptoed up to my chin.
Those dragonflies were a crunchy treat
and, like you, they tasted quite sweet.
I woke to you holding me in your sleep
and held my breath so you wouldn&rsquo;t hear me weep.
&nbsp;
There are dead dragonflies in my bed
outlining the shape of your head.
My eyes are seething storm clouds&nbsp;
and the thunder of mourning is fucking loud.
Lightning strikes after I smoke
and I scream in the rain &lsquo;til I&rsquo;m soaked.
And then &ndash;what&rsquo;s that?&ndash; maybe I&rsquo;m just high
but through my tears I think I glimpse a dragonfly.&nbsp;
&nbsp;