by Amy Bobeda
white lace luminesces a dress free people made for photo ops in joshua tree, I’ve never been that kind of tintype wrapping my arms in leather belly of a black rail perched on the balcony mapping fran’s yard in crayon in my little blue book, the sun printing silk in my lap down at the bar three drunk men ask if I’m getting married, the actors say yes, climbing the toy ship mast outside the hardware store where solace arrives in diameter pitch and wing width in the study I swivel through five copies of Burn After Reading, and wonder if Brad Pitt’s death was surprise or foreshadowing sliding the book next to itself in the shelf I walk down to the water to pray, slip out of my white casing into the sea. You follow me an otter lapping your coat around my legs ruddy freezing my cheeks against the rising moon my breast blue like the black rail’s belly reding my eyes shadowlike Cassiopeia reflects the ripples you fold into, the rising tide threatens my survival, rarely scene in flight tonight my arms mouth a map of kelp pods across the milky way, the seaside town who didn’t want my company. ____ Amy Bobeda holds an MFA from the Jack Kerouac School of Disembodied Poetics where she founded Wisdom Body Collective. She is an editor of More Revolutionary Letters: A Tribute to Diane di Prima. Her work can be read in Entropy, Vol1 Brooklyn, Denver Quarterly and elsewhere. @amybobeda on twitter.