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Kristy Bowen - Sometimes, Mary |
And yet, see how we delight
in madness, impossible waters,
the roads that bind us,
fish-like, to the shore.
She can't quite lose the elliptic,
this thin membrane of sighs.
It endangers the bathwater,
turns it to blood.
Ordinary distortions appear
in the mirror: a face,
a finger, the rim of a cup.
We are given the illusion of snow,
the disparity, a trace.
The walls won't stop their knocking.
She bangs against the edges of winter,
runs a tongue along its suture,
exacting, flattening.
She says she is leaving the city--
at this very minute,
her shoes are pointed south.
We are the stasis, the interruption.
By now, there are miles
between here and there.
Kristy Bowen's work has appeared in a number of publications, including Small Spiral Notebook and Stirring. She lives and writes in Chicago, where she edits the online journal, Wicked Alice. Her chapbook, The Archaeologist's Daughter, is forthcoming in spring 2004 from Moon Journal Press. She was recently nominated for a Pushcart Prize, and is currently working on an MFA in Poetry at Columbia College.
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