from No Tell Motel

harm

Soon, the objects nearest the house begin to crumple like bows, putting back their shapes. They sing the dead from their drawers, the white from our sheets. Soon, even the cats won’t sleep. Night, a girl falling through trees. A chair fastened to the floor. Before the wreck, I wore a checked dress and talked about poison: deux ex machina. My hair medicinal, written. Bloodstains where he looked for me on the car seat, the white sheets. He looked for me with the kitchen knife, trampling the azaleas. The devil in me swooned in the root cellar, where I tried to keep him, couldn’t feed him. He sang the town to ruins. Sewed the sky into a slit.

© Kristy Bowen 2008