lake effect
Poem by Kristy Bowen •
Photo by Sunny Williams
 And after all the guessing, plastic castles and ballerina flats, you still open your seams to the world like a good little shipwreck. Sometimes the sun is a compass, sometimes a burning barge. They dismantle the shoreline and a thousand years go missing. These men with their lenses and tripods. With their discontent and their mouths opening. They climb inside with flashlights –seek the voice box, that rusted bucket, where ribs tighten and ghostfish swim the pale lungs. Perhaps your hearing is off, and when they say ruin you can’t stop thinking of rain. How, sometimes the water wants to be a blue door. Sometimes the girl moving toward. Previously appeared in Cranky.
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