A POEM BY KRISTY BOWEN


          the devil and the dressmaker


          I still know all the words for grace,
          the spreading of thighs and motel curtains.
          Five and five and bus rides.

          Under the canopy of my arms is a sort
          of black water, a rowboat worn down
          at the bottom. The mannequin in my

          window wears satin and blue feathers.
          Speaks French and tears the faces
          from photos. She spurns my botched

          burlesque, my vague fevers.
          In the twin bed at home my mother
          wears a dirty slip and cries

          into her thighs. The bruises
          grow fine beneath my cotton dress.
          My sorry lot-- my bad, bad daddy.

          There’s a poker chip in the sugar
          bowl, razors in the button jar.
          No electricity in the bedroom

          where the shotgun rests against
          the wall. I still know the words
          for cut and sing. For pin and stick,

          and nights like these for dig.


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Kristy Bowen lives in Chicago where she writes poems and makes vague attempts at collage and book arts. She is the author of the fever almanac (Ghost Road Press, 2006) and feign (New Michigan Press, 2007), as well as another project, in the bird museum, forthcoming from Dusie Press Books. She is also the editor of the online lit zine wicked alice and founder of dancing girl press, devoted to publishing work by women writers.