KRYSTAL HOWARD


A MAP OF YOUR BODY

I drew up a map of your body the night I saw your face like spun glass on a tarot card—
your face—your mouth—the shape of my name.

Sleep floats on now like a yellow moon, I am weightless and heavy on the surface of
you, the surface of your palm—when I cut you open you don’t cry out.

Did I ever tell you how my chest goes hollow for you? Did I ever ask for anything but
this? When it swelled up in the attic of my ribs I prayed for a curse. I broke open on the
pillow—let your voice seep from me onto the sheets.

I fell off your palm into the river last night— my brain a wrecking ball to the wall of
water— I swam downstream and swore an oath—

If you ask me to cut my tie to this darkness I will—
 
 
 
 
EPITHALAMIUM FOR MY SISTER

I walk through the woods thinking about what I’ve said
to you. There is nothing to be learned
from my wedding ring. I twist it against my finger
and go on collecting sticks. My world is heavy
with desire so I sink my feet into the stream. Again
the dream of love descends upon me as the sky darkens.
Even though I am alone now with the hollowed out
wind and the sobbing trees— Even though I know
your body so well— I have nothing to offer. I will tell you
this sister, I did not know I could slip
into a wishing well with my beloved and return with only
sand in my palms. I did not know all could be lost
in the darkness— in the silence. When I went back
down in search of him I found only broken bicycle
wheels and his name written on everything.



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