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,



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.

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