Month: November 2014

“you only put butterflies under a pin if they’re not you.”

pinned under a magnifying
glass tall and sweet with
sweaty fingers,
there is a fire

it burns in your eyes
and smoke catches in you
your hair; a nest

a story for butterflies
whose wings dance
in the spot

light on a darkened stage

you, a cornucopia

and yes,


Recipe for Matzo Ball Soup


To prevent baseballs in your soup,
you must burn.

I think that I was
sunburnt for forty years
and then infinity.


Once burnt, cut off your blackened
edges, and proudly wear your
tattered corners.

I wonder how quickly change
brews, if I need to let it
sit so it absorbs everything


From these former tribes, pick
your corner and bury it.

Widespread, our roots spread
like batter on parchment,
paper dolls who rip themselves
in poppy-seeded desert wind.


Water your seeds with care;
they should never learn
how easy it is to drown yourself.

My father taught me to swim
when I was two and one,
afraid to dive
and had yet learned to stand
on my own.


Your sapling will grow apple seeds
and grape vines and
salted egg bread and
bitter herbs.
You will harvest a heavy heart
because there are things that
cannot be forgotten.

I think I want to plant
an apple tree on Jupiter,
on its sunburnt eye.
But a tree is a commitment
of five and thirteen years.


Take your livelihood and
dump it in the pot.
Stir until your blood boils.

There are songs we sing
and fabrics we weave
and so many things that
I think our universe is
bigger on the inside.

Six points on blues notes
scatting between triple braided
compressions and repressions and
an ill-reformed shield are
all I know to be home.

chapped lips

chapped lips breathe cold
the moon’s high-waised tide,
boot-cuffed above inner-tubed socks,
and lay their blistering ghost.

i’ll pluck the stars from
the bell-bottomed sky and lose
them in my pockets
brimming with short-change.

worlds rush white-water rapidly down
the coast-lining of my inner-seam.
my teeth chatter a groaned
implosion of splintered gums.

i wonder if the stars grate
and the angler fish’s light
gets rubbed out and he
needs A+D for chafing.

whether schools swim between supernovae
and if alligators toast bread
with their slice of moon and
strongly worded glass of red.

i think that the stars would
burn holes in my skin
through the underbelly of
my pockets’ wrong-turns

and that they’d be fragrant.