She's not dead, she's in the Bronx
Lisa Bowden
for Eve
Something was malarial then, unarticulated—
an undertow holding bodies
suspended in winter trees
invisible weight on your head
we had her.
she
was colloidal, was prime
a trace luxury a bird a story stopped
can’t go back
fall away, fall away untranslatable girl
we had her
a little.
if x leaves y
the puzzle lines drift
takes home from home
how reckless, how coliseum
can’t—
rhythm the yeses back
we had her
a little.
bed night, good dear
these are the things we will never know:
how many inhalations, how much weight.
~~~~~
Lisa Bowden is a poet and publisher in Tucson, Arizona.