Actually, I’m not sure what I did. There is a sense of knowledge
without being taught, like I’m a baby bean sprout. The more I see weather,
I drift asleep. This is going to make me I’m going to be late—or loosened.
Here is a pause. Here, where the rail sparks glimmer. I need black coffee or
a full body under me.
Yes, I mean sex. I can’t cross my legs like that. The woman in front
of me applies mascara. She begins to read… some novel? I couldn’t put
mascara on when I was sixteen. It was too dangerous, that black stick near
my eye. Instead I wore cherry chapstick, shaved my legs with a pink, Bic,
two-blade razor. Legs spotted and red, I’m getting there.
KRISTIN RAVEL is from a mélange of rural pockets in Michigan. She graduated from Central Michigan University with a B.A. in English. Her work can be found or is forthcoming in magazines including Big Lucks, The Columbia Poetry Review, Poets and Artists, Indefinite Space, and elimae.