I will be reading as part of the Headless: A Body of Text-Based Performers this Tuesday night, 5/21, in Logan Square w/ all sorts of awesome people, including a handful of dgp-ers. Would love to see you there!
I have a new interview up at Women’s Quarterly Conversation, in which I talk about some of the poems in the upcoming girl show and all manner of other randomness…
There are a few more pieces from my newest project apocalypse theory: a reader over in the latest issue of BIRDFEAST…
This year, I’ve decided to participate in a 365 Days/365 Photos project, posting one daily image that documents everyday randomness. You can follow along with me here...
A handful of pieces from a newish project apocalypse theory: a reader are among the newest offerings up over at Jet Fuel Review.
isabel of the wreckage
Too much iron in the soil and the grass
won’t grow. Impatiens will falter, swelter
in the dusty kettle. Too much metal in the water
and doors swell in their frames. Spoons bend
backwards and the kitchen smells of fever.
Sediment in the iced tea, and a girl begins
to see things. Bluish shadows peeking
from beneath quilts. Flies gathering at her hem.
Yesterday, she bled through three dresses.
Pinwheel heart and lockjaw. Even the bodies
pulled from rivers are woundless, immaculate.
Rinsed clean as the bones of old pickups,
the ghosted acres of tires.
Door to door, amnesiacs wander in the low hum.
The collision of their bodies sparks brushfires.
Pallid tongues move from mouth to mouth,
unzipped, their breath scissored and alum.
from in the bird museum
A whole batch of new prints are currently available from the Circularity Series in the shop, here..
sangria
Not red, not exactly. More like dawn,
or the illusion of it. Hummingbirds, humidity.
Azaleas splitting in your palm. In Texas,
the nights are sueded, starlit.
There is no language for the soft
of your hands, their thunderous braille.
Bruises ripen on my wrists like plums.
Nevertheless, I am sly, scarlet-lipped.
Gathering light in the folds
of my dress. Crossing my sevens
polite and girlish. I still dream
of the desert, the woman you once kept
sleeping in the curve of your body.
She slices peaches, pulls the hair from her face.
She is sweetened and full of rain.
Even the coyotes have lost the scent of her.
(Though the publisher went kaput and it’s out-of-print, I still have stash of copies available here: http://www.kristybowen.net/feveralmanac.html )
I am excited to be a part of this amazing anthology, Women Write Resistance: Poets Resist Gender Violence just out from Hyacinth Girl Press and edited by Laura Madeline Wiseman.
Yours truly talks poetry and publishing with a host of other fine woman-powered presses over @ delirious hem. Check out the first installment, here..
