dreams about houses and bees | text and image by Kristy Bowen

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limited edition of 50
text/art by Kristy Bowen
1st in the 2014 zine series



house made of mothers


Sometimes, mother is a nesting doll, a doll faced mess,

feral beneath her skin and skimping on the potatoes.  

Sometimes she’s a hotel fire, and I'm on the wrong side

of the door. All things sugary and greased falling into my hands. 

I can't remember the word for the body inside the body, but this

body grows fat and luscious from the honey, from the bees

I keep in the center of my sternum.  Away from all 

the ballrooms and busted radiators of the brain.  That precise spot

in my memory, where I made an ocean of the skin,  

my hands scented like citronella and devouring tiny lace cookies

behind the lawnmower in the garage.  Sometimes I keep my mother

in the bottom dresser drawer.  Write her down on a slip of paper

and burn her to keep away the rats.  Sometimes she gets stuck in the drain.  

But it's okay, this motherdoll.  This dolorous hum.