from HONEY MACHINE (Plath Centos)

Waterproof, shatterproof, proof

In  the  daytime,  I  am  ridiculous. Surely  the  sky  is  not  that color.   On a striped mattress in the rain, we make a star.  The lilies exhale.   No one is safe.   All gods know is destination.   I break and the mouth.  The mouth gagging.

And the men, what is left of the men

In any case, you are always here, tremulous.  I am the magicianís girl who does not flinch.  There is nothing to do with such beautiful blank but smooth it. All by myself, I am a huge camellia. How I would like to believe in tenderness. And I said I do.  I do.  Nevertheless.

I call you orphan, orphan. You are ill.

This is rain now, this big hush. What is the name of that color? The elate pallor of flying iris? A ghost column on the balcony of the hotel? You are wrapped up in yourself--sticky candies and the petticoats of the cherry turned into a tree with excessive love.   The white hive is snug as a virgin.


Kristy's work has appeared recently in Handsome, Paper Darts, and Midway Journal. Kristy is the author of 6 books of poems, including the recent SALVAGE (Black Lawrence Press, 2016) as well as numerous chapbooks, zines, and artists book projects.