She's not dead, she's in the Bronx
Lisa Bowden

for Eve



Something was malarial then, unarticulated—


an undertow holding bodies

suspended in winter trees


invisible weight on your head


we had her.




was colloidal, was prime

mineral in our veins


a trace luxury   a bird   a story stopped


can’t go back


                fall away, fall away untranslatable girl


we had her

a little.


if x leaves y

the puzzle lines drift

takes home from home


how reckless, how coliseum



rhythm the yeses back


we had her

a little.


                 bed night, good dear


these are the things we will never know:

how many inhalations, how much weight.





Lisa Bowden is a poet and publisher in Tucson, Arizona.