From Seven Corners Poetry (7C)

girls against boys

When she makes an o of her mouth,
the forsythia behind her head bursts into flame,
singes clothes-lines full of blue gingham
pinafores, yellow flowered sheets.
When she bends at the waist, she can make an o
of her body— a birdcall, a tiny pink sequin.
Can make up names for the baby teeth
beneath her dresser— Lydia, Amelia—
their tiny lion tin. Can define the pinwheel
of her arms falling through dark.

The trellis by the steps slicks in the rain—
all night he calls for his extra rib,
his good heart’s hinge. Sad, sad.
No one can sleep with him. The world
is all checked cotton and charm bracelets now.
I can move my mouth in a whisper.
Could give you the instructions,
if you found the proper word.

© Kristy Bowen 2006