Either way, I was right when I said the heart
was a Chinese kite, a busted radio. The underwater
lovers never quite get where they were going.
All the buttons fall from my blouse, scatter,
and become points on a map. No matter
what we take with us, we leave it on subway
seats and park benches: the red umbrella, or
this nest with its tiny blue eggs.
Yesterday, I pulled three spiders the size
of quarters from my hair. I fear I'm beginning
to loosen my bones back into the landscape.
Soon I'll be nothing but a ribcage
filled with a half dozen sparrows.
Kristy Bowen is the editor of Wicked Alice. She lives in Chicago.