Kristin George Bagdanov
We Dissolve Separately
In the beginning was the word, was the
breath that shaped it, the mouth
that cupped the breath and the body
that made it. I am merely flesh, remaking
myself every seven years. I breathe to escape
my origin, caressing the unseen
with syllable like rings of smoke
that open to dissolve. Trust me, you will
always be alone. We will always be separate in time,
the distance between our bodies in bed
the distance between your death and mine.
We come together at night to pretend
that loneliness is an animal we can cull. But
I watch you sleep, hair splayed across your pillow,
slack mouth breathing for your singular life.
Kristin George Bagdanov studies and writes poetry in Colorado State University's M.F.A. program, where she is also a Lilly Graduate Fellow. Her poems have recently appeared in or are forthcoming from The Los Angeles Review, 32 Poems, CutBank, and Redivider. You can find more of her work at www.kristingeorgebagdanov.com
Return to November 2013 Edition
In the beginning was the word, was the
breath that shaped it, the mouth
that cupped the breath and the body
that made it. I am merely flesh, remaking
myself every seven years. I breathe to escape
my origin, caressing the unseen
with syllable like rings of smoke
that open to dissolve. Trust me, you will
always be alone. We will always be separate in time,
the distance between our bodies in bed
the distance between your death and mine.
We come together at night to pretend
that loneliness is an animal we can cull. But
I watch you sleep, hair splayed across your pillow,
slack mouth breathing for your singular life.
Kristin George Bagdanov studies and writes poetry in Colorado State University's M.F.A. program, where she is also a Lilly Graduate Fellow. Her poems have recently appeared in or are forthcoming from The Los Angeles Review, 32 Poems, CutBank, and Redivider. You can find more of her work at www.kristingeorgebagdanov.com
Return to November 2013 Edition