Poem of the Week: "sangria" by Kristy Bowen
Kristy Bowen’s work has appeared in Diagram, Caffeine Destiny, Cranky, Another Chicago Magazine, and others. She lives in Chicago where she dabbles in collage/text/book art, edits the online zine, wicked alice, and runs dancing girl press. Her most recent chapbook, errata, is available from her website, and her full-length collection, the fever almanac, is due out now from Ghost Road Press. Her book, in the bird museum, is forthcoming from Dusie Press, and a chapbook, feign, is being released by Diagram Press.
sangria
Not red, not exactly. More like dawn,
or the illusion of it. Hummingbirds, humidity.
Azaleas splitting in your palm. In Texas,
the nights sueded, starlit.
There is no language for the soft
of your hands, their thunderous Braille.
Bruises ripen on my wrists like plums.
Nevertheless, I am sly, scarlet-lipped.
Gathering light in the folds
of my dress. Crossing my sevens
polite and girlish. I still dream
of the desert, the woman you once kept
sleeping in the curve of your body.
She slices peaches, pulls the hair from her face.
She sweetened and full of rain.
Even the coyotes have lost the scent of her.
the nights sueded, starlit.
There is no language for the soft
of your hands, their thunderous Braille.
Bruises ripen on my wrists like plums.
Nevertheless, I am sly, scarlet-lipped.
Gathering light in the folds
of my dress. Crossing my sevens
polite and girlish. I still dream
of the desert, the woman you once kept
sleeping in the curve of your body.
She slices peaches, pulls the hair from her face.
She sweetened and full of rain.
Even the coyotes have lost the scent of her.
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Comments
Posted by: David Roth | October 30, 2006 01:45 PM
Posted by: tony fitzpatrick | October 31, 2006 10:44 AM