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.