by Kristin Ryan
She is bruised by sunlight.
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.