Kristy Bowen

a little fever

In the glass factory, the space behind
her body is warm, chambered

like a heart. All wires and threaded light.
Her mind a railcar sideways on a track,

a vastness, steel pinions pushing against
her thigh. On good days, the silverware

shakes in the drawer, predicts cyclones
and brushfires. A cat in a well three

counties over. Times like these she believes,
if sliced open, you’d find a lake, a length

of copper inside her. A litany of weathered
saints sitting in the bathtub. Her legs listless,

petal heavy, her hipbone a bridge halved
by distance, halved by fiction.

On bad days, even the line of low clouds
a borrowed thing. Forgotten.

Return to Volume 2.2

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