a body that when laid out
makes me remember the sun like a sheet hung
behind a high hill not quite a mountain;
back at your house one of your hairs has
been crushed into an oriental rug
and it waits there for your mother to find it
shining
in its own weak way;
somewhere there is a tea kettle
whistling and forgotten in an empty house;
you know about the fires that creep
along the tallest lines of trees
sharper than silence
and the christ statue reaching out of the woods
with his white right hand;
you used to say he scared you
his eyes open like bowls spinning over the edge
of a well-lit world
you didn’t recognize
Liz Bowen is a poet, editor and feminist living in Bushwick, Brooklyn. At the moment, her favorite things to talk about are the X-Files and her two sweet kittens. More of her poems can be found at liz-bowen.com.