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Erin Wilson

Lesson

Bitter morning. I gnash two fried eggs,

searching for the yolk of my childhood.

 

Beginnings, you have teased and humiliated me,

running away with your air-loving hair.

 

At dust-o'clock, I stand ashamed,

facing the corner.

 

My parents cower beside me, progeny misfits too,

their pockets torn, their noses snotty.

 

We have forgotten the essence of our homework.

 

Our smallness asks, "But where are the flying horses?"

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The New Mythology

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“We are consumed by rationalism, but yearn for the Great Myth...”

                                                                                         Anna Kamienska

 

Our hands love wood grain

and the names of flowers.

 

We elect crows as mayors.

We exalt the saint-faced heron as sovereign.

 

We sleep soundly on corncob beds.

Foxes walk us wearing velvet collars.

 

We forswear being masters,

longing instead

 

for the ecstasy

of chlorophylled hours.

Erin Wilson, photo - erin wilson.jpg

 

 

Erin Wilson's poems have recently appeared or are forthcoming in Chiron Review, Berkeley Poetry Review, Lake Effect, Verse Daily, and Pembroke. Her first collection is At Home with Disquiet; her second, Blue (whose title poem won a Pushcart), is about depression, grief, and the transformative power of art. She lives in a small town on Robinson-Huron Treaty Territory in Northern Ontario, Canada, the traditional lands of the Anishnawbek, devoted to a handful of things, all of them poetry.

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Bear Review

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11.1

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