Kristy Bowen


Syntax gives over to a dry sound,
knocks like the bottom of a boat.
There's a grey, of course,
with birds, maybe moths, their
thousand frenulums humming.
Perhaps a premonition in the tidal

pool, the net of stars fixed
above the yard. Sometimes,
it goes like this, easy, smooth
as lips unfolding the syllables
against our bodies. Tomorrow,
teacups on the ledge will fill

with rain, and the aftertaste of olives
inhabit my ribs, the lay of bones,
their blue diagram. A dizzy gust,
and something gone missing.

This, the evenings parable:
black, calendula,
the mouths of insects.



"Breaking the Spell" was the first poem I completed in my endeavor to write a poem a day over 30 days. The odds and ends of it had been floating around in my notes and consciousness for months, and needed just that sort of discipline to be pinned down on the page.