blue girlKristy Bowen
Say I'm muddy water. A flood. Partly cloudy. This body like a door and all the girls sad girls, a windfall, all waiting for the mad scene. Waiting for the Spanish dancer that plays my mother to let go the balloon hidden beneath her skirt. Mostly, I spin languorously, play the spoons while the bones are picked clean. There's a rope in my throat in case of fire. A martyr, a failing clock. I've been hiding in the cloak room for days among the dark coats. I've been placing a little dish for water beneath the window. A little brush near the mirror for my hair.
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