Cherry
The word lies in your throat
like a stone or an omen,
rests heavy on your tongue
like longing, or the word
love—
lonely as a cup.
You're fashioning prettiness
like a crude tool, the fall of hair,
flash of eye, slice of lips.
You cultivate honey and velvet—
violets in your voice, your movement,
bones lovely and pliant,
worn thin from dreaming.
In the still of your room,
tuned to the low hum of night,
you understand distance—
it skims the surface,
flips like a fish in your belly.
You can almost touch it
beneath your skin,
this incomparable space
between mind and flesh,
the ceiling and the stars.
Copyright © 2002 Kristy Bowen
