the fever almanac | Kristy Bowen

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Ghost Road Press, 2006 




Not red, not exactly. More like dawn, or the illusion of it.

Hummingbirds, humidity. Azaleas splitting in your palm.

In Texas, the nights sueded, starlit. There is no language f

or 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 sweetened and full of rain.

Even the coyotes have lost the scent of her.