Erin Wilson

from outside the ribcage of the ecstatic, the world peers through


not like a ghoul would, but with indifference that never need be practiced
as a kettle sits on a stove


when it happens in winter, when everything is densed, is coated
when what once appeared, like the tip of a wing, is no longer

when the pine trees are now forever betrothed
despite the earth's wedding, so obviously over

go out into it and know yourself, no longer two points on a circle's circumference
but a short line with two nubs to note the start and finish

the sun shines like a lunatic from between the darkened trees
and the wolves, fur-covered beastly things, tirelessly circle

snow falls from limbs like token secrets released from brackets
with no effect taking hold below

bird tracks, fox tracks, deer tracks and yours, are tiny tombs
empty even of death's sullen notes

if there was seriousness before, you've never known it
poetry has been permanently disavowed, anesthetized

the world is, only is—no room for moans, only a metallic lack of sentiment
the trees crack in the wind, the sound spreading like ice

Author Portrait

Erin Wilson writes, runs, and takes photographs in a small town in northern Ontario, where she occasionally encounters a wolf or two when walking across the bridge at night. Her poems have recently appeared in Poppy Road Review, Rust + Moth, Up the Staircase Quarterly, and Mockingheart Review, among others.