They live on fire, the burning girls,
trade winds, broken fibula,

impossible symmetry.
Think exclusion: five disciplines, ordering,

my fingers raw, this curving away
from stillness, how a body becomes

an apology,
bend, bending.

She is only this dark
feed across canvas, a furthering,

azaleas harbored, languid anklebone,
sudden water.

The daughters are heavy
as breath in darkened rooms,

the flutter, the flutter, the feud.
A translation of insect dreams,

ghost cantos,
circadian crescendo.

Still they love the hunger
poems, compendium,

the difficult swimming.
In syllables, distortions,

night makes a landscape
ecstatic, a prayer.

Her wreckage is lineage.
Kristy Bowen

These are dry seasons,
imaginary countries.


She is canted, statuesque,
alabaster suicides
in incendiary blues,

softer now, but devouring.
Note the imperative of sunlight --
birds, beasts, terrain.

Dragonflies, amber glass,
slammed into the dark roof
of your mouth.
Honesty by Debbie Macey