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. 



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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.