Gluttony

From my infancy I wanted to taste the world
Try out everything on my tongue
Grass and tables and mama's hair and
educationally engineered teething rings

I know I am not unique in this,
in wanting to find out fox holes and mirrors
and electrical sockets
(which maybe explains some things)

Today, the window of what I will allow in my mouth
has narrowed, which is, arguably, for the better.
But there are tastes I have missed.

I  have let in sugar and starch, syrup and sauce,
sluiced prodigally in place of the salt of someone else's secrets
I let savors come slushing down my throat
hoping to hush what hungers there
But it will not be stilled, this fevered yen.
It's not enough, maybe never enough
but what's enough?
I don't think in this lifetime I will ever feel
Full
but in the meantime there is taste.

Have you ever put something in your mouth
and known it was holy?
Come to my house some evening.
Bring a bottle of whatever you like.
I will show you how I pray these days.

There was a moment in my life
I stopped believing in God
and started believing in salt.
That whatever is alive grows
and dies and nourishes something else
And that includes me
I have only so many years
to let the world in through my mouth
Before I am served up cold
So instead of praying, now I have learned to add heat.
I braise and boil, and roast and broil
I steam.

I cannot promise you salvation
But come into my kitchen
It will be redolent with the sizzle of onions and hymns
There's voodoo in my tenderloin
Don't you fall in love with me
And say I didn't warn you.

We will offer libations and smash our glasses
And learn what it means to open
You will taste like Alleluia
and I will taste like Amen
And maybe that's close enough to holy
for now

Beauty Sleep

Days like this I want to stay asleep,

so I do.

I've become almost gruesome, microwaving single-serve

bags of frozen peas and letting entire 

crock pots of gumbo and pulled pork

turn to penicillin in the refrigerator.

But I'm running out of fridge space, so I've come up with a plan.

I will hire a construction team to build me a tower,

and a landscape architect to cover it in ivy.

Then I'll knock over a Walgreen's pharmacy

and steal a year's supply of Ambien.

Someone promised me, this is how 

you end up happy. Perch high in a campanile
and learn to be beautiful in it. Every so many hours,

take a pill and fall back asleep. Dream

of almost nothing but tintinnabulation. 

Stay drowsy until someone wants to kiss you,
and then up and marry
the first person to fight through your brambles.

It seems as good a strategy as online dating.

But what if it's some brute with a sword

who is the lucky winner? After all, the easiest
way to hack through defenses is with a sword.
I would have to prick my finger. I'd bleed for a hundred years.

But maybe instead it will be someone soft enough

to slip quietly through my protective ivies.

Someone who will not mind when I cry

about crises I should have gotten over in high school.

Maybe she will be drawn to me

not because I have more warning labels 

than the Ambien I stole, 

but because we like the same species of caladium,
broad and pink and reaching,

and she sees familiarity in my imperfections,

and I see in her a good reason to stay awake.

But I could be waiting for a really long time.
Who even knows what caladiums are?
I certainly won't find her sitting in this tower.

No,
I will flush the pills nobody ever prescribed me
and I will leave the tower via the stairs.
I will learn to ask for what I need
instead of hoping it climbs up to rescue me.
In fact, I will be outside after the show.
Come talk to me?
We can stay awake all night.

Thank You for the Offer, ADT, But No

I will bar the door tonight

Figuratively, I mean

Nobody uses doors with actual bars anymore when a deadbolt will suffice

and is more aesthetically pleasing

But sometimes the part of me that misses things I never experienced

(like soda jerks and speakeasies and hoop skirts with six-foot diameters,)

also misses having a stout blockade, a perpendicular palisade,

to bar harm from the house, an arm thrown across what is sacred

And somehow gazing with milky nostalgia
it's easy to wander backwards, disremembering
the past, through decades I never lived in,
and finally through ones I did;
how my father used to throw his arm across my chest

in the car, if he had to break suddenly;

how he stopped when I grew breasts

instead his hand hovering over the console

caught between propriety and protection;

how I never had occasion to learn

whether his arm would have made a difference

in the event of a three-car catastrophe

Maybe tonight I will not slide the deadbolt into place,

Because really, any earnest assailant with slender shoulders

could easily slip in through the doggie door,

and even if I were to outfit my house with everything
from medieval iron barricades to high-tech alarm systems

I still would not feel as safe as I did

in my father's car, with his arm outstretched

Waltzing Matilda

If I give a name to the things I carry
I can take them, dancing

Styrofoam beads that cling to my skin
Eyelashes I shed, and hairs,
Brushed crumbs from my breast after lunch
And always the pilling of my dress

Attend them into a pile together
And wrap neatly with, say, a handkerchief
Or a dinner napkin
And then take a shoelace, if one is convenient,
(floss or floral wire otherwise)
to secure the matter

And a stick--don't forget the stick
It doesn't have to be grand or straight

Throwaway things, or ingredients for voodoo,
Or food for mice and moths
Wrapped, tied, carried cozy

Take me dancing, Matilda.
Carry me in a thundershirt around with you
So I feel the sway unbraid my hair

Anthropomorphize me
(I hardly feel human)
And I'll dance with you

An Unscientific View of Embodiment

You might not recognize it at first
But my body is made of stars.

I did not know this for too many lifetimes
But I know it now and I am saying it out loud so I don't forget

I am made of stars.
I am the world's hipsterest constellation
Stars so obscure, hipsters haven't even  heard of them
Sparrow major and spero minor are only two of many

I have not always been kind to my body
I cut and pasted words from magazines onto construction paper
and mailed myself bomb threats
I held my breath hostage

I think I thought people wouldn't hear my body
if I silenced it in overlarge clothing
but the body speaks even when we don't want it to
It takes up space, even when we think ourselves nothing

And I am sorry now for all the times I asked my body for a divorce
And grateful now for all the times my body said no
It doesn't work like that
We don't get to be incorporeal: this is not a practice run

One day I ripped to ribbons the books I wrote on how not to be heard
I took a sledgehammer to the bricks I threw through my own windows
And a machete to the paintings of the times I made my body a carcass instead of a holy place
And I didn't think anything would be left.
I thought if I stopped hating myself I would run out of passion.

But what remained were the ingredients for paper-mache
And an insistent burning that reminded me
I can make of my heart a black hole
Or a solar system

I am made of stars
I give off heat and light
If you come close enough you can feel the warmth
You can see the glow

Envie

My favorite color is aubergine,
which is French for eggplant,
which is really just purple with delusions of grandeur.

A close second is merlot,
which is French for merlot,
which is really just wine with similar misconceptions.

These colors are rich,
probably more self-important than they ought to be,
which I find simultaneously familiar and attractive.
Short things that think themselves tall.

I thought, for most of my life, that what I wanted was aubergine and merlot.
Beautiful, round-bottomed vegetable
and full-bodied, fruit and pepper wine.
Soft, dark, quiet intensity.

A visit to Appalachia in the fall
and a week of missed phone calls
taught me that what my teeth crave is not softness,
but ferocity.

We work, dear friend, because you are loud, brash, hungry.
In all the ways I am a soft place to land,
you are a war cry and spit on the stoop.
You are not tame.

My darling, color of fire,
I found you among the autumn leaves,
vibrant and truculent in the Appalachian landscape.

I picked an orange and yellow bouquet,
set it on the table.
I ate eggplant, drank wine,
and missed you.

The Rug Doctor

You can rent one at the grocery store for twenty dollars.

A bargain if your dog, like mine, is frightened of thunderstorms,
and you happen to leave Austin during the single two-week period in which
it rains ten days out of fourteen, never mind that the rest of the year
is dry as toast, and it just so happens that your otherwise beautifully
house-trained dog's favorite mode of expressing his fear is to pee,
emphatically, on your bedroom's most absorbent surfaces,
read: duvet cover, plush pillow, and at least nine different spots on the carpet.

The pillow and duvet you can toss in the wash, but the carpet is a different issue.

Your roommate, bless her heart, will have sprayed some of that
pet stain-remover on the carpet the morning before your return,
but this job is bigger than a spray.
This was two weeks of what appears to be your dog's entire body weight
in fear-induced urination, and it will require a whole bottle of white vinegar,
a family-sized box of baking soda, the lavender water you got from your
hippie neighbor, and yes, the Rug Doctor.

At first you will be irritated: irritated that your obviously neglectful roommate
was not home every minute of the day to comfort your poor, terrified pooch.
Irritated with the aforementioned terrified pooch for not having a more
constructive coping mechanism for what most people would consider
arguably harmless weather. Irritated with the weight of the
Rug Doctor itself, as you lug the machine by its red plastic handle
across the parking lot of the H-E-B, into your house, and clunkingly
up the stairs to your bedroom, where every moveable object
has been stacked into precarious towers atop the bed or dresser.

You will cuss after misreading the fully-illustrated instructions that come
with the Rug Doctor, because you will have, with almost comic inevitability,
managed to fill the wrong tank with hot, soapy water.
When the man at H-E-B had laughed and said that the Rug Doctor
was idiot-proof, he evidently was not thinking very creatively.

But once you turn the machine on, and slowly pull it backwards
across the carpet, you will find a sort of meditative rhythm:
the rock-step-pull, the rising smell of soap, and the realization
that you have been wanting for a long time to feel really clean.
As you pour out the tank of dirty water into the tub,
you will take pleasure in having removed that dirt
from your bedroom sanctuary. You will wish that all stains
were so easily rendered innocuous.

It will storm again, the night after you clean the carpet,
but this time you will be home. You will hold your dog,
press his shaking body to your chest, and remind him
that he is safe. But even if he forgets, gets scared,
and pees on whatever is handy, it's okay.

You can call for the Rug Doctor in the morning.

Rapture

Yesterday I was doing some earnest procrastinating on the interwebs.
It started with looking for a synonym for the word torture--
don't ask me why--but that led to one link, which led
to another, which led to a website called
After the Rapture: Pet Care.
It's a site where a network of Christians has organized
a network of non-Christians who have volunteered
to care for the pets of the recently-raptured.
So, for a small fee, you can have peace of mind knowing
when all of a sudden the believers disappear,
somebody at this organization will basically start the
Atheist phone tree.

Hello, Patty? Denise here. Yes, it's happened. 
Can you pick up Coco and Peanut on Thursday? 
Great, I'll just give a ring to my buddies
At the Ladies Tuesday Book Club and Agnostic Society. 

It makes sense, if you think about it.
I mean, if you believe in the rapture, and you're not a total jackass
You would want your dog to be in good hands
After you quite literally go with God.
And it seems that the Bible, while saturate with
lurid imagery of teeth-gnashing and just punishments for the wicked,
is a little sparse when it comes to how to plan for poor Mittens,
trapped in your 5th floor apartment, with
all of her hunting instincts bred out of her
and no opposable thumbs to work the can opener.

I had heard before, from Pentecostal friends, that
the sinks would run with blood and the rivers would boil.
I had heard that once the rapture happened
the unbelievers would lay awake,
unable to sleep because the skies would be thick
with the wailing of those left behind for the time of Tribulation.
There would be massive confusion, pestilence,
and violence from our own hands.
Any day now, they said,
the rapture would happen. Be ready.

But here's the thing:
I already can't sleep. Long after the clock
has trudged back into single digits
I lay awake staring at the popcorn ceiling,
looking for constellations, stars to wish on.

And there is wailing, too. When I turn on the news
there is some turgid politician or overpainted news anchor,
giving me more reasons to howl, to keen, to tear out my hair.
Every day in Damascus, Kabul, St. Petersburg,
Detroit,  New Orleans, Austin,
someone's sink does run with blood.
There is enough wailing and gnashing of teeth,
to send chills up any listening spine.

The very idea that the worst isn't already happening seems silly.
I think the Tribulation is here, and we have made it ourselves
with no help from the Anti-Christ.

It's not that I don't have hope.
But if it gets any worse, and you disappear
I just want you to know,
I will take care of your dog in the aftermath.
I could use the extra warmth.

Whale Bones

Did you know that whales have hip bones?
They do.

The hip bones of whales are vestigial structures: evolutionary
leftovers. Some creature wiggled out of the ocean
and became an amphibian, and became a reptile,
and became a bird, and became a mammal,
and looked around at the land where it walked
and breathed and gave live birth
and decided it would rather be rocked by waves
So it slid back into the sea

The hip bones are still there.
Remnants from a time when
legs were required for jumping, dancing
They don't serve a purpose now,
but I guess they don't do any harm either.
Nature is replete with vestigial structures--we humans are no exception
Our tonsils, tailbone, appendix and wisdom teeth
are all vestigial.
They're our parts we don't use anymore
Leftovers from a time when the world was different
Or we were different in the world.

And I wonder, how long does it take
for a structure to become vestigial?
Is it possible that it happen the moment we evolve past its use?
If I have not been in love for five years
does my heart become vestigial?

I have adapted.
I have a sweet dog for snuggles
and dear friends and caring family.
I have purpose in my work.
And if it has been half a decade
since I have been wanted by a partner,
maybe that ache is just appendicitis
A flareup from a part of me that hasn't been useful in a long time.
Some days I would rather be rocked by waves.

I would trade in my own hip bones for a tail,
Let the ache fade into a fossilized memory
for scientists to puzzle over.
And if, in the meantime, someone
comes questing for me, searching out my heart,
all she will hear is a baleen sigh.

I have gone back to the sea.
I am swimming away.

A Love Song to Carmen Sandiego [Expanded]

I fell in love with a woman who was addicted to leaving.
We met at a museum.
I was staring at a piece of modern art, feeling stupid,
my head tilted quizzically like I was a dog that had just been given an unfamiliar command.
Ghost-quiet, she appeared beside me and said, "You couldn't pay me to steal that shit."

I said, "People pay you to steal things?"
She grinned.

Maybe it should have been a red flag when I asked where she was from, and she said, "I'm from everywhere." Maybe it should have been a red flag when she took note of all the emergency exits.
Maybe so many things should have been red flags, but maybe I'm the kind of person
who sees red flags and thinks, "Oh look! A parade!"

She was very interested in my stories about the stage makeup classes I took in college.
"Wouldn't it be fun," she said, "to take a train out of the country
and pretend to be somebody else?"
So we adopted fake Scottish accents and declared ourselves to be
Mary Maceachran and Sorcha Lilliputz.  Her wanderlust
fueled us from Reykjavik to Buenos Aires, from capitol city
to capitol city, a delirium of hotel rooms I could never have afforded.

I woke up one morning to a note that said,
"If I could see your smile, I would never need to steal the Mona Lisa."
The echo of her laughter resounded in the empty hotel room
like the bells of Les Saintes Maries de la Mer.

Carmen,
Where you going next?
I've got my suitcase packed and I'm ready to leave with you.
And there's nowhere in the world I wouldn't go,
So don't leave me here so lonely in Cairo.

I would meet you in Minsk and kiss you in Kiev
And hold your hand on the banks of the Thames
I would fly from the Mojave all the way to Skopje
And never look back

You have ten different passports, I know
Hidden in the pockets of that beautiful red trench coat
But since you're on the lam, let me run awhile with you
Carmen, where you going next?
'Cause I've got pesos by the purseful
And this handy Finnish phrasebook
And two pairs of dark sunglasses
And a box of fake mustaches
And no one will know our faces.
I just need to know, where are you?
Where in the world are you?