Kristy Bowen


Dear alphabet. Dear spark.

My head is dull like a shell with the ocean in it. When you left me in the restaurant, I scoured the dictionary for days. Kissed men until my teeth hurt. Craved margaritas and the salt on the back of your neck. O my barb wire. My broken key. When you went south wearing my blackest dress, I looked in every hotel room from here to Knoxville. Cried in the shower. Found you puking in the backseat and mumbling about metaphor. On good days, you're a mad scientist. On bad, a vain girl with a scalpel. I put out a glass of wine to trap you. Line the drawers with sawdust. You hide my clothes and threaten to riot. Play gin rummy with the neighbors, throw record players out windows. On good days, I can get you to lie on the floor while I chant Light as a feather, stiff as a board.

Light as a feather, stiff as a board.

Kristy Bowen lives in Chicago where she writes poems and makes vague attempts at collage and book arts. She is the author of the fever almanac (Ghost Road Press, 2006) and feign (New Michigan Press, 2007), as well as another project, in the bird museum, forthcoming from Dusie Press Books. She is also the editor of the online lit zine wicked alice and founder of dancing girl press, devoted to publishing work by women writers. She is obsessed with victoriana, carnivals/sideshows, horror films, Joseph Cornell, archives, old scientific & botanical illustrations, postcards, and all things paper.

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