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THE KNIFE GAME

In a dream, I'm waiting for someone to pick me up— a red Ford with a broken steering wheel. I've killed the bride. I didn't mean to. She was smaller than me. Had several tiny blue sleeping pills and a lisp. Silver, she'd say, silver. Something dark swimming toward me in the house, like the game, every third girl moving to the next chair. I’m haunted by machines, strange metallic aches in my wrists. A woman in the liquor store asks: are you okay, is something wrong? I have several bottles of tequila beneath my dress. A tiny stage beneath my sternum, a peep show girl. She looks kind of like your wife. Before the hatpins and black gloves. I get used to you in my mouth.

© Kristy Bowen 2007