by Kristin Ryan

She is bruised by sunlight.

Uncertain hands

move towards

a tea cup full of grapes.

She remembers it being easier this way.

Bowls are simply too much:

they can trick you into filling them—

what if you can’t stop—

Listen: sometimes a girl can’t eat,

becomes afraid of kitchens and knives.

The way the air presses skin, through

blood into bone, into the marrow.

No, it’s better to stay here

in the living room where blues and yellows weep

from the starry nights, the sunflowers,

the wheat fields on the walls. She wonders if

this room will become her wheat field—

if his face will become her gun.

____________________________________________________________________________________________________

Kristin Ryan is a poet working towards healing, and full sleeves of tattoos. She is a recipient of the Nancy D. Hargrove Editor's Prize in Poetry, was listed as a Write Bloody Finalist, and has been nominated for Best New Poets. Her poems have been featured in Glass, Jabberwock Review, Milk and Beans, among others. She holds an MFA from Ashland University and works in the mental health field. She tweets @kristinwrites.