The Brooklyn Rail

Walking through saltwater and coming out empty

My mother tells me a story where her fingers are criminal
of the minor sort, she moves her hands
like this
I picture them being seventeen, wrinkled and manicured
the same. My knees to my chest.
I’m most sentimental in a Lincoln town car. I’ve bitten everything,
two years old trying to have someone remember me forever.
I’m never reaching. On a quest for dishonesty I end up with more truth
than I need. At the ocean, a river. In the lake, salt. At the Pacific shore
black sand full of iron, corals full of poison in the Atlantic. “I’m all torn up,”
crying, I mean my flip flops and my feet. With my hands I realize
I speak with my whole body. There’s this thirst, I eat raw fish that I
catch with my bare hands, pick my teeth with the bones. I’m crass
I like to brag. I’m fifteen. Everything smells like Marlboro reds,
I’ve just finished chewing a hole through the Ozone I’ve swallowed it.
A crying apology. “I’m sorry, I’m sorry I didn’t mean to. I just got so
hungry, I couldn’t decide what I wanted to eat.”

Be Holy, o Teeth

When I walk through a door there is no door, when I walk through the hall it’s a ceremony.
Synchronized dancing, the trees are letting go of themselves. I rake my fingers through
my hair and pull out loose strands, I rub them between my palms to make them balls.

I put them in my jean pockets. While I’m in there I find old fingernails. From when?
I don’t bite anymore, it’s all so dull. Panamanians don’t get wet says my mother.
A betrayal, I’ve been gifted an umbrella, I carry it everywhere, I love my umbrella.

Am I this? Yes, you say. And this? Yes. Also this. I’m not clean when the toothbrush
dies, I put baking soda on my finger and run it under water. Now so clean, finally.
Why? What a stupid question. It’s because I can. Not my hair, but my eyebrows.

I’m voracious I eat ten walnuts. Her hair smelled and looked greasy before she died,
according to several sources close to the victim. Indicative of something. I’m keeping
everything dirty on purpose. Outside of the window there are no visible stars. Dad,

can I sleep in the truck tonight in the seats that smell like dog? Stomp out the fire.
But keep it alive! Heart wrapped in foil, I put it in the ash. It bubbles up like coffee.
Not worms in your chicken but veins. When questioned I wrinkle my nose up

towards my mouth. It’s always been like this, I say. The flesh you eat has always been flesh.

Kick Rocks, Eat Rocks, Fuck

I’m vulgar when I lick my palms. Spit,
drag, spit, drag, drag, spit. My humble
opinions are so many.

I Don’t Have Issues With You I Love You Here’s The Thing

When you move your head like that the line is a snowball. Oh.
I cannot fight you. Bang pots and pans out your window, trill
your voice with your tongue. I’m wanting something: the feeling
of eating sidewalk rocks, unhinging your jaw til it cracks.

I’m an adult! I don’t know. Poems? Popes? Posts. When I move my head
like that I can hear all the rocks.