ISSUE: Spring 2018
Crooked red fingers of stretchmark on her hips, dough Isabel kneads back into hips, magnolias in her hair, blossoming hips, 1930s Mexico, the sun, a hip burst into blood, violet lace pulled across her hips like molasses, molasses leaving white sugar behind, her naked body, more grit than glitter, grotesque like grotesque, the fly left under her soap dish, her hip’s embrace too wide for a mirror, antique gold frame, roses twisted, wedding ring, a branch that mates with electrical wire, Isabel rinses the campfire out of her hair, replaces it with a tequila baptism, the sizzle of blow flies on a sagging window screen, cheesecloth angry with dough, dough she kneads into a face that stares back at her, magnetic cloud, little thunder of cloth scraping against steel, symmetrical ribs, hip bones steeled, childbeared, pro-savagery, knee steel, we’re put back together, unfortunate, the best ghosts we’ve ever known.
