Poetry by Erin Clark
Always this wish: indistinguishable
in that way children’s wishes are
from the whole body.
Unspellable, apart.
My brain wisht
My heart wisht
That which I did not yet comprehend between my legs wisht
for a crone to stroke my palm
and tell beyond doubt’s bright shadow
what it is to achieve
and where a gifted smith would yoke me,
as much burden as freedom.
No crone was permitted.
I was unpermitted
unto the black rose velvet undulation
at the center of my destined days.
Taught was I, instead,
that destiny is but half the thing,
the rest of it is will, upstanding,
done.
Still January but I’m writing the wrong last digit yet
when dating a page,
habit hangover bleeding in
to grey timeless winter.
I hope this is not a forecast
for a year of missteps,
a bee dance-communicating
with her greater hive
but incorrectly, sending them on
a wild goose chase:
the goose honking,
no pollen whatsoever to share:
elsewhere the powder-glistening stamens
unrubbed and dry.
Limbs at rather indecent angles
yet pleased we can
both still bend these ways;
their tongue on the long hairs
of my forested winter legs, gluing
them to the skin with wet.