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of angels, satin and the rest you would have hated

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

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.