June 23rd was the day of the super moon, the day before
was super moon’s eve. Well,
someone must have had too much to drink last night
because the street gutters are full
of something that comes from craters – so I am thinking about
how you said you see my face in the sky
when the dark clouds open up and begin to cry,
how you explained that we can make flowers out of this
watering can of tears or else I will just let them
evaporate. I never know if I am in
a boat or in your bed, if every black coil is a spider in its
web or my hair: you would tell me that I have enough
loose strands to knit the moon a sweater,
plus one for each planet and sun.
It is me, and it is you, we are what make the sky –
other people is how these oceans have gotten in our eyes.

******* no longer feels like I am trying to pull a
glass heart from the smallest hole in my body
but I can still exhale poppy seeds
from between my legs,

have sweat catch my hair with its Elmer’s glue,
split the mermaid fin into ten spread toes,
tune guitar strings with my fingers,
and paint a postcard whenever moonlight spills milk.

I capture every **** in nature
fantasizing about the points of a star protruding
like *******.

It is natural for my skin to slip inside my skin
to break levees the way waterfalls open for summer –
drown sorrows in the sink
that creates freckles on my love’s face.

And when I think of him, and when I finish building a
bridge to the self-nirvana I taste,
I am as a mother bird making a nest twig by twig.

fire storms on my
skin: they look like honey on
toast and it kills me.

I think I have figured out where all those bobby pins went –
of the hundreds that appear in my school’s
lost and found, at least double
could be discovered a little bit under my chest. Where
I breathe, where men touch me, there
are sharp things a beautiful girl could pin her hair up with.

Moths are born from spider webs,
creatures who make love with seven legs bent over their heads
and that is how I feel for you.

Almost invisible upon the back of plush blacks
merely caught up in a game of Twister, twisted, tied,
birthing beautiful flies -
I want to feel my saliva crawling out from your ****** hair.

My skin keeps raising in a certain spot,
the surrounding veins looking like orange juice pulp. I think
about my boyfriend in Florida, how he ****** my
calf right where the spider bite will return
again and again, and maybe he has sent his teethmarks
in the papery flesh of grocery store containers.
In that case, twisty-ties on bread bags are fangs I can finger.

He says I have the look of white chocolate everywhere
but so do zits, teeth, and milk, if we want
to use logic. He tries to make me seem beautiful but

it mostly falls flat, not until last week did I believe in bruises
as a method of communication or appreciation.
Now it would make me happiest
to mix our blood and call this relationship romantic.

There is this disease my friends complain about
called a “food baby,” how after eating it feels like small feet
create rocking chairs from the dull edge of my ribs. I
feign labor and birth nine months later:
she’s yours, congratulations. It stopped being cute
after the first time I made my boyfriend’s face spark up in
confusion and fantasy, it makes more sense to
say there are maggots getting married
under an arch made pale by my intestinal track. I say so now.

I miss my boyfriend in Florida very much,
although I only have to lift my thigh up and he is here.
He leaves scars on me from insects that need to escape their
venom, I am the Golden Gate Bridge
that they climb merely to jump off from, to die.
He would probably say they are just strawberries on my
hips and hands, white chocolate that would not melt for him.

I have not yet decided if I want my body
to be a weapon, or if I want to use weapons on it.

It came from the constellation
Capricornus, which is parallel to the planet Earth –
the swirling element I am associated with.

Not air or blue sea
as you might expect from someone as blue as me.

The first time I laid on someone else’s legs
I remembered the man who loved me was a Fire sign
because my skin became as easy to
flake off as chalk, and I liked that very much.

Pomegranates peel quite the same
without knife, perhaps I am fruit more than I am sad.

This is a type of fruit originating in India
where round is the most honored shape and
my mulberry smile may give someone an element
of Fire between their legs.