Erin Clark
another life, New York state
I married him. We moved
into a house little bigger than a trailer
but it was ours. He fixes cars
and is kind to children. Blue-green
eyes and good at driving. That neat beard,
even then.
another life, Zaragoza
I bought that finca, that dry farm, pittance
for us peasants, hashtag homestead goals. The cows
speak Español, the birds
do not speak at all. The churches
remember their heaviness, their
silvered betrayal.
another life, Scunthorpe
I’d have taken the job for the hidden profanity
(hers or the town’s).
Maybe it was so. Black wool hides
a multitude
in plain sight.
another life, Chicago
I bled my heart out. The city nearest
pressed me to itself just like any city,
bid me, drink deep, from the thick
aortic pulsing.
another life, the bottom of the lake
The sensation of running, tumbling, rolling
down the sand dunes towards what will become a sunset
to write home about:
that, only beneath
rough, cold waves,
no salt to clean between
my teeth, my sockets.
Sincerely yours,
Detritivore.
Erin Clark (she/her) is an American writer and priest living in London. Her poetry, fiction and essays have appeared in the New Critique, Oxonian Review, Geez, Mash, The Hour, The Primer, Free Verse Revolution, and elsewhere. Her chapbook Whom Sea Left Behind will be published in 2023 by Alien Buddha Press. She is the author of the nonfiction Sacred Pavement (2021, That Guy's House). She can be found online at emclark.co or on Twitter @e_m_clark.