Poetry, Vol. 1.2, Sept. 2007
In spite of the dragon climbing
the arc of her back, she is small boned
soft bodied. Made for hatpins and pleats.
Named after a river, named after a river.
The crows lining her middle bleeding
into one another, lining the window sill
as she sleeps. In Mexico, there’s a woman
shaped into a violin. Another into a boat.
Her bones cradling sadness like cargo.
All of them cultivated, the bad parts
cut out like corn. She’s still skittish
in the kitchen, spilling milk
down her blouse and pressing
the heads of matches against her thighs.
Still spangled and waiting, a viper
unfolding at her wrist.