LEGLESS AFTERNOON – chapbook , 2019

linoleum lasts

some years ago
it’s a liters worth by now
you’d think
I’d find
the thing

looking into the bottom of a pool that’s been drained 
and you 
see more things in the corners 
and maybe you find a marble 
or maybe you find a chair

it is good to sit on the floor 
and maybe find yourself a lawn chair 
and lay down out there 
thinking about where the water level would be at, 
so far above your head 
maybe four feet 
or shallow side, one

it’s easy to forget we can’t breathe underwater 
but sure do we try
to find ways











houses that few teachers would like

she suggests the bus leaving the sidewalk 
as a moment when many living children 
in violence
feel relief

she asks me at what point I feel safe
I think of two local radio stations and where they meet 
and fade into one another 
she suggests the end of the block by saying,
"for some, it is the end of the block."

I tell her I identified more with holding both frequencies;
the contentious noise of two competing systems
reverberating
as they fight for air time
in my skull 
inventing their own 
DIY
disturbed
lullaby mobile
on the ceiling of my scalp.













early humans in clay

the skin is an organ of protection.
where grout would be if someone had anticipated 
the result of growing up without sealed joints 
(or at least someone who would help 
me seal them)

the skin is an organ of regulation.
they’d regulate my access to 
my own seams
of which I now wonder,
what is embedded

in periphery 
light leaks swarm 
and I take notice;
moving the pallet knife higher 
by standing on my toes












common feature

when my skull cracks open
will I get to see the spiders that crawl out 

I have heard there will be spiders












no closing line

I cannot drop the call on the frequency of the paint 
I continually ingested 
from the surface of my bed frame 

a pigmented elixir, 
a pottery barn bed,
they served my panicked stomach well 
please,
let this paint make me physically ill 

still
the enamel is emitting its own harmonic 
a decade later
at the bottom of my stomach.
it just sits there
like debris
on a pond floor
waiting for someone to kick it back up 












drawings that fail to satisfy the conventional expectations of adults

when the alarm sounded 
we did not evacuate
we just sat in the fire and got used to the sound

to be too scared to think,
about how to take care of yourself,
to leave the house in jeans,
that haven’t fit in years

I’d watch the other children 
get on busses in the clothes 
that held them
the right way

we sat with the blinds drawn 
but no one came to save us 
and the bus did not rear-end my home 
when I was not at the stop.
it just did its job 
and carried on














scribbled-over image of a human

when the 
silk suture thread
is absorbed by your body 
where does it go

I have thought about the internal integration 
of the thread
and
I would like
to know













keeping score

I take myself out when it's screaming 
the knot, tie, twin
the crib I carry for myself 

she shakes the bars 
she bites her own hand 
she holds on to my ribs 
now she’s giving them her force
in her effort to get me to notice 

if she had a switch 
she would do less damage
I try to tell her about guts and turns 
and their functions— 
what I’ve read about home 

“the ribs are not a literal cage, “
I try to reassure her
I try to buy myself time 
she bangs on the glass

I’ve never broken a bone
but I have tried














bodies drawn as clearly outlined units

move an inch to the left
you left me 
clung to bare mattress
no second set of sheets 
they do not get a break 
in-between washes

I am in-between 
an overloaded system 
and the pilot light
I am over by
six notches I tattooed onto my hip
I think about counting them and then 
quickly reorient my interest 
to alternative surfaces

sulfuric dip dyed ends on the lace trim of a canopy bed 
and I would sleep on the floor next to you 
because I needed you
even though I would wake up most mornings 
smashing my face into your bedpost
it was good to feel like 
I had a boundary for once.

the floor was mine 
the bedpost-bulletin was yours 
and you told me I could post my flyers there
if I could find the staples 












design giving distinct indication of a spider

I am beginning to understand why 
she planted stinging nettles in our front yard
providing us a five by five foot arena
where we would try not to fall in but

someone 
always 
did














little concern for realistic anatomy

I do not want to see what’s
inside your limbs 
I have seen enough
in my years 

like lice in my sisters’ scalps
I have been good at getting lice
out of my sisters’ scalps
because it was my job  

I am good at 
elbow grease 
storing it mostly
in my arm pits














internal branches

these jeans are very uncomfortable but
they have a sequin blue heart 
that my mom sewed on
in 2004















legless afternoon

swinging
to jump off or keep swinging
to know scraped knees,
how to cover them,
knowing what material 
is easiest to land 
face first into
what is easiest to walk away from
what leaves fewer inches
into your palms,
the red indents and 
how long you know them to last

I’m writing because I am tired
of swinging
looking at where the two 
structures meet
and knowing where 
the noise of the metal comes from
looking directly at what needs grease
and knowing you’re the only one 
who hears it
the way you do

the park is noisy
when people who visit leave, 
they leave 
but you’re never far enough
to not hear the ringing












the following titles have been borrowed/adapted from Rhoda Kellogg’s Analyzing Children’s Art
houses that few teachers would like
early humans in clay
drawings that fail to satisfy the conventional expectations of adults
scribbled-over image of a human
bodies drawn as clearly outlined units
design giving distinct indication of a spider
little concern for realistic anatomy