Steeped
by Alice Costas
In the morning, it is gathered like a flock of bees, the parts that function on the edged of culture (the shuddering knees) and put away for a few more days. Every dress crafts the lungs into another shape. My mouth, a clothesline stringing out thin cord attached to a building, says connect me like its name, but it stays a thread of gum, pulling itself into thinner taffy.