A House Which is a Kind of Falling

The proliferation of s’s in your words make me jittery,
which is to say, there are worse things than this weather.
Me, I’ve been hiding objects in my mattress
instead of burning them. Tiny glass kittens, dirty dishes.
Writing love letters and stuffing it to the seams.
Darling, I’m so dry these days I could turn to sand,
but I have a plan, which is a sort of cartography
of the interior, four chambered and subject
to faulty wires. A finger tapping at the breastbone
while I sleep. A kind of etymology, bluegill
instead of pulse, shimmer instead of breath.
It’s watery recess.
                            I do this thing where I say
I love you, but it’s more like a latch,
a finger movement, something I’ve tricked
into happening. Or a hotel pool
I’ve been crashing for years. I slather myself in lotion
watch a movie where a woman with tiny birds
on her dress stops talking, walks across the room.
This is always happening, then happening again.
Like an eclipse, or dark spot in my vision.
She stops eating and shines so bright
it’s intoxicating, which is to say, it’s terrifying.

A writer and visual artist, Kristy Bowen is the author of several book and chapbook projects, including brief history of girl as match, in the bird museum and the fever almanac. She lives in Chicago, where she runs dancing girl press & studio, an indie press and design studio.