Poetry / Poets / Writers / Writing

Two poems by Erin Wilson

the english word for hiraeth is toast

 

toast is fire

and fire memory

 

and memory the small prim-shouldered jacket

my daughter once wore, supple and soft as sumac
as she clung to me

and her jacket my own nostalgia for my once-self

 

which is the world with its arms around itself

gently rocking itself through sleep

 

 

from out of the earth box

 

it wasn’t dead
– yet
but it was sure to die

we knew it, and
(despite not knowing language)
it knew it too

of course it was in a hole
in an earth box
(that was a hint)

fear hitched up its legs
and it clawed at the soil
(uselessly)

this poem is like that
like the animal’s hind legs, feral,
like its claws, blind

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