the body artist by Kristy Bowen

the body artist by Kristy Bowen

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.

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