Erin Wilson is originally from a small rural community on Manitoulin Island, Canada, the daughter of a trapper and a cook, step-daughter to a butcher, Erin Wilson’s poetry explores identity through poems that both threaten and feed. Her work has appeared widely in literary journals such as The Literary Review of Canada, The American Journal of Poetry, Poetry Ireland Review, Juked and The Hamilton Stone Review. Her first collection, At Home with Disquiet, is due out in the spring of 2020 with Circling Rivers. She lives and writes in a small town in northern Ontario, Canada.
Some Images of Women
~after Francesca Woodman, Alix Cléo Roubad and you
F.W. has left this world to go looking for her image elsewhere.
Elsewhere F.W. does not confuse sadness for happiness.
Happiness and sadness blend together elsewhere as a whole number.
F.W. raises her camera to take that picture but finds her hands are implicit in the.
A.C.R. has taken a step past grammar.
There grammar means foil flapping as feathers in the wind.
Wind blows straight through walls there.
Walls fall beneath the body and like the longue chaise slip in.
X.X. is not dead.
Not-dead can confuse integers with fractions.
Fractions are the black camera resting from the black strap between her white breasts.
Her white breasts shake and blur.
A Human Poem
If it’s not a cut, I don’t want it.
Not one pretty lady swooning in the shade.
Ascots—to hell with them, unless for manhandling.
Gloves, only for the slapping.
Only for the taking off.
Only for the marring.
Nouns, get your rumps in order! Cattle to the cattle cart!
White skin? Be damned! Black? Be damned too! Red? Even so!
Skin—be damned! And in your damning
shake lit like a tadpole to the centre of your pain!
Grief? It’s all grief.
Spread it along the salted side of your cracker.
Scream, the pretty children.
Scream, the seagulls.
Scream, the worm eviscerated.
You think your asshole’s tragic? It is. Pucker up.
The glory of god evades us
even when it’s starved and stripped and cut from ass to throat,
even as it lounges like a Victorian lady, supine, a wilted flower,
strung over the settee like a skein draping your lovely ulnaris tendons!
Something, through my mind, walks taller.
Something wears hair redder, longer.
Something with sharper nails and sharper notes
with long pauses, nearly appalling,
strides onward, rising, falling, all of it longing
to compress into a daub
so to shoot me like a bullet through the rifle of a poem.