by Kelsey Hatch

My neighbor carries bones in her back pocket:
Airplanes, lambswool, rifles, stockings, men.
Hold a black light to her skin and you’ll see her life spangled
Like radiation shadows burnt onto concrete walls.
From the rear window of my kitchen,
I watch her spoon mountains of sugar into her tea,
Dig out the Alps from a ceramic bowl and drop
Them like parachutes descending to a sea
That licks the walls of her mug.
Yesterday and today and tomorrow she scrubs
At the dirt under her nail beds: the highlands blocking
A fleeting parade of men from running over the hills
And into the valleys of Switzerland,
Collapsing in the sloping troughs of her heart.