You are not exactly
what they say, but not
exactly otherwise. Blood

winds in you, rushes
along your bones.
What woman's body

doesn't start and hum
with the moon, tiny
wildness beating inside

like a drum. Aren't all
love letters really
spells of some sort--

pins, knives, fire-licking
ecstasies, evidence
of simple voodoo, slumber

party games, egg whites
in water, ouija boards.
You body floats in moonlight,

white arms tangle and rise.
He comes to you always,
running fingers through

the dark weeds of your hair,
says your name against
your throat, the night,

again and again
like a ward against evil.
You learn to fear

other women, their words
become a rope, their mouths
the oven, the rack,

the wheel, tumble and fall.
Given time, you'd have learned
to be good, fasted yourself

into line, fastened yourself
hook and eye to docility,
the dullness of your days

like a blunt knife cutting.
Fate swims in you now,
blackness swells beneath

your ribcage, in the hollow
of your throat, will set
itself free one day

howling into the night.

Kristy Bowen's work has appeared most recently in Prairie Poetry, Sand to Glass, Eclectica, Artemis Journal, and Melange. She was recently awarded third place in the Poetry Center of Chicago's 8th Annual Juried Reading Competition. After studying English and Theater at Rockford College, she received an M.A. in English Literature from DePaul University, where she focused her study on the work of women authors. She lives and writes in Chicago, where she edits the online literary zine Wicked Alice.

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