the torturer's apprentice
by Kristy Bowen In the lights, the blade in his hand
resembles a key. Resembles a cure.
I hide it beneath my dress when he sleeps,
place it against my thigh, where the alloy
makes my mouth hurt, makes the horses
shake in their pens. When I've swept the tent
of every smile, it comes. Glistening, endless.
Nausea like a parade of pink ponies
all the girls throwing roses and garlands.
We build a reliquary out of incendiary things,
while he dazzles me with cut-glass,
the tiniest blue bottles.
Always a rushing in my ears when
he lifts the hair from my neck,
a shiver when he cuts off the braid. |
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© 2007 prickofthespindle.com |
Kristy Bowen lives in Chicago, where she edits the online lit zine wicked alice and runs dancing girl press, which is dedicated to publishing chapbooks by women authors. She is the author of the fever almanac (Ghost Road Press, 2006) and the recent chapbook feign (New Michigan Press, 2007), as well as at the hotel andromeda, a collaborative text/image project (w/ Lauren Levato) inspired by the work of Joseph Cornell. Her poems have appeared recently in Cranky, Backwards City Review, DIAGRAM, Caffeine Destiny, and The Tiny. Her second full-length collection, in the bird museum is forthcoming from Dusie Press in December. She recently completed her MFA in Poetry at Columbia College. |