Blackmail Fantasy

On Thursday, I take a train to a town with a gas station and one stoplight. Wear a black coat and dream all night about wolves skirting the parking lots. My hope is a single bright balloon caught in January trees, a fakery, a delightful amnesia. Needless to say, you’ll do what I want because of the lingerie and possibly because I can fit an entire apple in my mouth without gagging. Still, I cry a lot, on buses, on airplanes. It takes so little energy it’s almost like Stockholm syndrome. All the houses are full of daughters, all the daughters full of milk and tissue paper, of 7th grade slumber parties. I fall in love with them too easily, with your wife in her tiny box. I am so dangerous, even the wallpaper hates me. The gas station attendant eyes my pockets suspiciously. Everything I say sounds like candy hearts, all sugar and pink pastels. This is the worst part of the game where I want and want and want. I play this part so sweetly you practically forget my teeth. Something keeps moving around my ankles like a cat, or possibly a small fox.




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.

Advertisements

On the Picturesque

On Wednesday, I start writing things down.
They are something like a poem, something
like a house fire. We have enough food

for a week and the pets all make it out.
The trees are sumptuous and dramatic
and rarely on fire. My hands are bone

white and only sometimes on fire.
Every dream has a dollhouse and every
dollhouse, a dream of moss, creeping

across the floor like carpet. Still, my ghosts
wear heavy shoes and rattle the bed at night.
All of them have other lovers. I can smell

the violets on their hands and the sweet
ache of their molars. I circle each one
with a red pen, then start again.

Map the distance, the weight
between desire and necessity.
Dear, it’s not so good.

Sometimes I can trick myself into something
like writing by moving words across the page
like peculiar, but overly extravagant, insects.

Sometimes, more the idea of words, like horses
or bricks in the houses we do not own.
Mostly I just burn.







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.

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.