a turn as Gould. An older Gould—
wear gloves indoors, tell me you
can’t have lovers for fear of harming
your elegant hands, clamber about the bed
being the man who always almost touches
me. Then become the man who does.
ST. FRANCIS
DISROBES
When Saint Francis materialized
in the corner of my studio apartment,
I figured I was in for a quick
message from the Almighty—Thou
shalt lose weight, or Thou shalt not lie
with thine physics professor. I thought
that it would take an hour—two hours
tops. On the first day, he didn’t speak,
but held a steady rhythm of five sighs
per minute. On the second day, he moved,
began undoing his robe, and I
imagined red squirrels perched upon
high snag ribs and swallows—mouthy
little things—skimming the fields
of fabric around his ankles. In him,
I expected to find where the river
quirks, to learn how many feet
a millipede can live without. I
wanted to see my prayers tangled
in his chest hairs. Or maybe I
wanted no hair—for his body to be
bare as tonsured scalp, but now it’s day
thirty and his hands are still unfolding
layers upon layers of brown wool.
Sometimes, I look past him to watch
infomercials, where hollow-cheeked
women shove apples into self-
cleaning juicers. I invite men over,
but they spend the night asking
questions he won’t answer, like why
leaves in shadow appear light blue,
why bees prefer beer cans to daisies,
or why their wives don’t forgive them
when they come home smelling of me?
I often dream of him speaking, of his
final unravel revealing a silk dress.
A present from my father, he says,
and as he raises his thumb to touch
my forehead I ask, Which father?
IN THE HANDS OF BORROWERS,
OBJECTS ARE TWICE AS
LIKELY TO BREAK
I.
Build me a house with so many rooms
we’ll have to plan where we lie
days in advance. Such joy in naming:
Analemma Room, Room of Caviar
and Unbearable Situations, Room
Where We Spontaneously Combust.
That’ll be my favorite, where we
breathe in our own rising heat, where
our water evaporates and returns
as condensation on the windowpane.
II.
My ghost drops by so often
I no longer feel obligated to offer
it our good coffee. Halfway through
my second mug, a roach leg surfaces
like a rotting mast. I’m so tired,
it says. I’m so tired and I don’t trust
what the world is up to with its fat horses
and its pupils sewn into place. I hear
I love you and keep drinking.
III.
I’m so close to tired.
Every man I meet dreams
of fucking me in star-clotted fields.
It’s selfish to want to witness awe—
to stand in a museum and shift
your gaze between the painting
and your reflection in its frame.
IV.
More than anything, I want
the ability to respond perfectly
to tragedy—like when you said
you didn’t enjoy the sound of my
voice, I should have sung louder
because, my little pocket of pearls,
my God-dodging bumper crop
of brown hair, you can’t cut off
a piece of the sacred and not expect
ruin: halos mutate into pipe cleaners,
galaxies into falling matches.
TURN ME OVER, I’M
DONE ON THIS SIDE
I’m almost positive I’ve got what it takes to become a saint
because I’ve stopped breaking what I can’t afford,
and if I look up for long enough, everyone looks up.
Are there any lemmings that refuse to mate because they
know that the overcrowding of their burrows and the sound
of a thousand offspring scritching up the tunnels will
drive them, panicked, off cliffs and into the ocean?
Little rodent virgin saints. It’s the same with us—scientists
in the ’70s predicted that by the year 2000 we’d be living
off kelp. We take so much from the sea. In Italy,
the last known sea silk weaver prays while she turns
mollusk spit into golden thread—The sea has its own soul,
and you have to ask permission to take a piece of it. She’s
a saint without even wanting to be, and here I am
stuffing plastic diamonds up my nose and waiting
in the park for joggers to notice my light-reflecting breath.
I believe those who believe that the greatest comedians
are the ones who’ve suffered most. Saint Lawrence
cracked jokes while being roasted alive. There
were so many storms the year I turned five, I forgot what
our windows looked like unboarded. After Hurricane Andrew,
I watched from the porch as my brother canoed into
a downed wire. I wonder if we name storms because
naming is the only power we’re left with. Give me more time
and I’m sure I could make this funny. Recently, people learned
that prayers reach heaven fastest by balloon. The party
stores have turned into churches, and I can’t afford
the inflated prices. Was that a good joke? Maybe I could
be a saint after all. I just hope I’m forgiven for the nights I
spend on the fire escape, untying this city’s prayers
long enough to hear the first few words. Each one
starts the same—Make this mine, Lord. Make this mine.
GOLDEN
RECORD
We know nothing about your bodies, but we want to
teach you ours. We aren’t weak. Our skeletons
are built to stand even when certain parts break
or go missing. And while most of us are born
with collarbones, there are some who aren’t—
in the ’80s they made a living rescuing children
from wells. On this planet, you have
to be useful to be kept around. Our interests include improving
the aesthetic appeal of practical tools—
cat-eared umbrellas, musical toilets, red bridges.
Our main turnoff is nature, though we find ways
around it. For instance, with the right mix
of chemicals and a lot of patience, we can change
a chicken egg into a single-use camera. How advanced
are you? We’re not looking to move backward—
even our primal yelps crawl up the throat
and out the mouth—but we’re known to be flexible
in tight situations, we’re known to be honest
when desperate, and honestly,
we’re right here, if you like what you see.
CHAPEL OF THE
GREEN LORD
This spring, the smog is so thick
I can’t see the stars, which means
to argue against this, to say,
no they’re on vacation, no
they’ll come back with new summer
&
nbsp; hats and an answer
to my question: If this world
is a plucked violin string, am I part
of its sound or its stillness?
Once, I woke and believed myself full
of the old heaven. I wanted to trap it,
make it stay. I swallowed
a hive’s worth of honey, and—
and still, no stars. This smog
is thick enough to turn my lungs gummy.
I stay inside, line my bed
with spider plants and succulents,
christen it Chapel of the Green Lord,
and go to sleep with the sheets pulled up
over my sticky mouth.
DIORAMA OF
GHOSTS
i spent years living with ghosts
strung between my teeth
Like corn silk?
like ghosts
How did they get there?
good hygiene or poor
taste
perhaps a blend
Why keep them?
i was so sad
i would have harbored
anything
Have you earned the right
to say sad?
i dont want to
talk about that
When did they leave?
all at once
…
they cannonballed
right into a punch bowl
and ruined my best
shirt
Do you know why they left?
when the dust is swept
the broom is stored
behind the door again
Do you miss them?
they made me the delicate
gulper i am today
But do you miss them?
the mention
of silence
I don’t understand.
worse
than the silence itself
SPACE
STRUCK
Ann Hodges, the first confirmed meteorite victim
I remember the doctor lifting my nightgown
to see how high the bruise climbed. He seemed
disappointed—A thinner woman would’ve died. I was
small when I was young. Didn’t take up much space.
In fact, I could fit all of me in a suitcase until I
was sixteen, and maybe I was dreaming of this
when the stone hit and I woke to light streaming
through the ceiling. I think I thought it was God,
since I’d been told it’s painful to bear witness.
At any rate, it was a blessing to my husband,
who pretends the bruise is still there. At night,
he lifts my nightgown and kneads my thigh.
He says, How deep, like he’s reaching into a galaxy.
He says, How full, and looks up to see if I wince.
III
I’VE MADE TODAY WARM
Sit on the park bench and chew this mint leaf.
Right now, way above your head, two men
floating in a rocket ship are ignoring their
delicate experiments, their buttons flashing
red. Watching you chew your mint, the men
forget about their gritty toothpaste, about
their fingers, numb from lack of gravity.
They see you and, for the first time since
liftoff, think home. When they were boys
they were gentle. And smart. One could
tie string around a fly without cinching it
in half. One wrote tales of sailors who
drowned after mistaking the backs of
whales for islands. Does it matter which
man is which? They just quit their mission
for you. They’re on their way down. You’ll
take both men—a winter husband, and
a summer husband. Does it matter which
is—don’t slump like that. Get up, we have
so much work to do before— wait you’re going
the wrong way small whelp of a woman! this is not
how we behave where are you going
this world is already willing
to give you anything do you want to know Latin
okay now everyone
here knows Latin want inflatable deer
deer! I promise the winter/
summer children will barely hurt dear I’m hurt
that you would ever think
i don’t glisten to you i’m always glistening
tame your voice and turn around
the men are coming they’ve traded everything for you
the gemmy starlight
the click click click
of the universe expanding
stop
aren’t you known aren’t you
known here
how can you be certain that anywhere else will provide
more pears than you could ever eat
remember the sweet rot of it all
come back you forgot your sweater
what if there’s nothing there when you—
you don’t have your
sweater
what if it’s cold
I’VE BEEN TRYING TO FEEL
BAD FOR EVERYONE
I’m learning that a miracle isn’t a miracle
without sacrifice, because when the birds
brought manna, we ate the birds. I’m learning
that we forgive those we know the least,
like when my brother had another episode
and stabbed his wife, I said to my beloved,
disorder, genetic, and he never yelled at me
again. Lord, teach me patience, for every fruit
I’ve ever picked has been unripe. Teach trust
that reaches past an opened and unwatched
purse. Lord, I’ve seen painted depictions
of an infant Christ winding toy helicopters.
I know it isn’t always about suffering, so send
us a good flood. Deliver a nectar that will soften
fists and lift these red stains from our doorframes.
THE RIVER REFLECTS
NOTHING
This morning I watched a neighborhood
boy throw his model plane into the air
with his right hand and shoot it down
with the garden hose in his left. My
hands were never that quick. When
my mother lived by the river, I lived
by the river. I knelt over it with legs red